Percival's hand lingered over the matte-grey surface of the Nameless. The weight of the metal felt right, but the weight of the legacy felt even heavier.
He'd always known that all seven of the swords had been made by real Blacksmiths, but he'd never expected to find the freaking Nameless in this place.
He looked up at the Merchant, his eyes searching.
"Where is he?" Percival asked quietly. "Where can I find this Theumir?"
The Merchant let out a slow, weary breath and adjusted his velvet robes.
"In a grave, traveler," the Merchant replied, his voice dropping an octave. "Theumir Steelcane died many years ago. The world has a way of wearing down those who create too much beauty and too much terror. He burnt out like a star that used up all its fuel."
Percival's brow furrowed. A master of that caliber should have been protected by the Crown or guarded by a High-Tier Guild. Or at least immortalized.
He made the freaking Nameless.
