The armory felt tighter once Lucien stepped fully inside, as though the walls leaned inward under the weight of steel and old intent. Weapon racks lined the stone floor in uneven rows, blades packed close together, some polished and cared for, others dulled by neglect. The air carried the sharp scent of oil layered over iron and sweat. Every sound echoed slightly, boots scraping, metal shifting, voices low and wary.
A group of mercenaries occupied the center of the shop, their presence immediately obvious. They wore mismatched armor repaired too many times to count, leather strapped over mail, plates scavenged from different campaigns. The all had a matching patch on their shoulder, a gray curved tusk, a namesake of Gray Tusk mercenaries. Their leader, a woman with cropped hair and a jaw set permanently on edge, noticed Lucien the moment he crossed the threshold. Her eyes followed him with open suspicion, hand resting casually near the hilt at her side.
"You lost, boy?" she asked, voice flat but sharp enough to cut.
Lucien paused near a rack of spears and gave a small shrug. "Just looking."
The mercenaries exchanged glances. The leader stepped closer, close enough that Lucien could see the fatigue etched beneath her composure. "This isn't a place for sightseeing. What are you really here for?"
Lucien met her gaze without flinching. "Weapons. Same as everyone else."
Before the tension could stretch further, a gravelly voice cut in from behind the counter. "Either buy something or take your wandering elsewhere." The owner leaned forward, thick arms crossed, eyes flicking between Lucien and the mercenaries with practiced indifference. "I don't run a shrine."
The mercenary leader clicked her tongue, clearly dissatisfied but unwilling to press further. "We're leaving," she said to her crew. As they passed Lucien, her eyes lingered one last time, searching for something she could not quite name.
When the door shut behind them, Lucien exhaled slowly. Relief loosened a knot in his chest he had not realized was there.
They had not found it yet.
In his previous life, the story had spread through Aurum like wildfire. A legendary Third Order barbarian chief from the western islands had fallen during a brutal campaign, his spear captured in the aftermath. The tribes claimed it was forged by their shamans, weaponsmiths whose methods baffled imperial scholars and plagued Aurum's expansion for decades. The spear was sent east toward the imperial capital for study, one of the few intact artifacts of shamanic origin the empire had ever acquired.
It never arrived.
Every transport assigned to carry it met disaster. Ships vanished. Escorts were found dead, stripped to bone. Eventually, the empire contracted the Gray Tusk Company. They recovered the weapon after years of pursuit, only for it to slip from their grasp again. Somewhere along the way, the spear was separated from its records and mixed into an ordinary shipment of arms.
The Gray Tusk spent years tracking it down to this exact store and eventually found it. The day they were meant to deliver it to the capital, they were found dead in their quarters, bodies shriveled to bone, the spear gone without a trace. The capital denied ever receiving it. Officially, the artifact was lost.
Unofficially, Lucien remembered an Aurum warrior who rose quickly during the island subjugation campaign, wielding a spear that drank blood and left nothing behind but husks. That memory alone made his pulse quicken.
He moved deeper into the shop, eyes scanning with intent now. He did not remember what form the spear had been found in, only that it had escaped notice for a reason. He checked polished heads, ornate shafts, ceremonial pieces that looked important enough to draw attention. Nothing stirred.
Then his blood reacted.
The sensation was subtle but unmistakable, a heat that crawled under his skin, sharp and invasive. Most people would have dismissed it as nerves or imagination. Lucien did not. After spending lifetimes surrounded by creatures that fed on death itself, he had learned to recognize the pressure of something reaching outward, brushing against him.
He followed the feeling to a corner near the back, where a dented bucket held discarded metal meant for reforging or scrap. Rusted blades jutted out at odd angles, forgotten and unpriced. There, half submerged in grime and old blood, lay a long spear tip stripped of its shaft. The metal was dark, stained beyond corrosion, its edge cruel even in neglect.
That was how it had survived unnoticed. No staff. No markings. Just another ruined blade.
Lucien wrapped his fingers around it, ignoring the faint throb that answered his touch. It was going to be a hassle to restore, no doubt about that, but if his gamble was right, this was no ordinary shamanic weapon.
He carried it to the counter and added a rusted shortsword for good measure. The owner glanced at both, unimpressed. "Three crowns," he said.
Lucien paid without hesitation.
As he stepped back into the street, the weight of the wrapped spear tip at his side felt heavier than steel. He smiled to himself, quiet and controlled. The Blood Drinker was real.
And this time, it was his.