The palace loomed before us, massive and ancient, black stone walls stretching higher than the tallest spires in Merrow. It was quiet in a way that felt wrong—like the world was holding its breath, waiting for permission to scream. Soldiers whispered nervously. Heroes moved with confidence, but even they couldn't mask the tension that came from standing at the doorstep of something that had survived centuries.
I stayed behind the group, unseen, observing. Detachment is cheaper than action, and experience has shown it is safer.
The path to the palace was lined with statues of forgotten kings, their eyes hollow, mouths frozen mid-command. People believed in them once, prayed for them, feared them. Now they were merely stone. Ordinary, inevitable decay.
The heroes paused at the main gate. They whispered strategies, discussed timing, troop placement. They were confident, polished, rehearsed. I observed them silently, counting flaws in their posture, slight hesitations, minor gaps in attention. Observation is always cheaper than interference.
The air smelled metallic, faintly of blood, even though no battle had begun. It raised the familiar pressure behind my eyes. I pressed my hand to my temple.
"…kill."
The whisper was close now, almost impatient. I didn't respond. I never respond. Observation is enough.
The palace gates groaned as the heroes pushed them open. Inside, the halls were vast and dark. Ancient tapestries hung from cracked walls, depicting battles and victories long forgotten. I followed at a distance, sticking to shadows, counting patterns in the guards' movements, noting doors, windows, choke points.
Everything here spoke of control. The Villain Lord, whoever he was, had planned carefully. The heroes were confident, but confidence is often a mask for ignorance. Observation, always.
The first guard appeared—thin, wiry, armed with a spear. A simple obstacle for heroes, but I noticed the pattern of his stance, the weight distribution, the slight twitch of his left hand. Ordinary people never notice. I do.
The heroes dispatched him quickly. Too quickly, in fact. He barely moved before the fight ended. They moved past, unaware of the details that mattered. Observation is cheaper than action.
The palace grew darker as we moved deeper. Torches flickered along stone walls, casting long shadows. I noticed every crack, every loose tile, every potential threat. My head throbbed faintly, the whisper never far. "…kill."
By the main hall, the heroes stopped. Ahead, a massive door, black as night and framed in carved stone. It was closed. Silence stretched before it, oppressive and patient. The heroes whispered, strategizing, planning. One of them even spoke aloud about the Villain Lord's legendary weapon, something that had survived centuries, feared by armies.
I paused. The words resonated in my mind. Weapon. Power. Survival. Observation still mattered, but something deeper stirred. Not curiosity. Not fear. Not excitement. A faint, cold recognition.
"…kill."
The whisper came again, almost satisfied this time. My cheap sword at my side remained unremarkable, but I felt it respond, humming faintly against my thigh. Not demanding, merely present.
The heroes pushed the massive door open. Inside, the hall was vast, decorated with gold and dark wood. At the center, upon a raised dais, lay a sword. Black, polished, almost breathing in the dim light. Its presence was undeniable. This was not a tool, not a weapon, not a prize—it was something alive, waiting.
The air seemed heavier, the shadows longer. The whisper became a pulse in my skull. "…kill."
The heroes stepped forward confidently, discussing plans, imagining strategies. I didn't. I simply observed. Everything about this blade felt different. It watched, but patiently. It judged, but without noise. Ordinary people call it a weapon. I felt it as something more.
Hours passed in preparation. The heroes argued and planned, ignoring the subtle cues the palace offered. I noted every crack in the floor, every potential trap, every shadow. The sword waited, patient. The whisper came only when my thoughts strayed toward combat, toward survival, toward necessity.
"…kill."
I ignored it. Observation is always enough.
The heroes approached the dais. I stepped forward slowly, unseen, unnoticed. Every movement measured, calculated. The sword pulsed faintly under my gaze. It was alive. It waited. It had survived the Villain Lord. It had survived centuries of men who claimed greatness. And now, it considered me.
"…kill."
I didn't answer. Not yet. The whisper was patient. It could wait.
I observed the heroes surround the blade, reaching for it, imagining themselves worthy. Their hands hovered above the hilt. Confidence. Pride. Ignorance. I counted the mistakes in their stance, the hesitation in their grips. Observation is cheaper than action.
Then one of them, overconfident, grasped the hilt. A faint hum echoed through the hall. The sword pulsed, almost laughing in silence. The whisper reached my mind, sharper, closer. "…kill."
I stepped forward, closer now. The sword reacted, its pulse stronger under my gaze, warm against the chill of the hall. It waited. Not for them. For me.
The heroes, too focused on themselves, didn't notice. They were slow. They were predictable. Observation always matters.
I crouched slightly, hand on my sword at my side, feeling the faint warmth of the whisper against my mind. "…kill."
Not yet. Patience. The real moment always waits for necessity, for intent. And mine is clean, detached, waiting.
The heroes laughed among themselves, unaware of the life that watches in the shadows. I smiled faintly. Ordinary, predictable fools. Observation, always.
And somewhere, in the pulse of black steel, I knew something important had shifted. The whisper had chosen its time. I had only to wait.