The light was still faint, ghostly in the early morning as the dew lifted from the ground in a chill mist that wrapped around the fanning tents. Gods I’m tired, Devlin realised as he finished lighting his fire and pulled out his sword.
            A soft flick of the hand span the blade around as he palmed his whetstone with the other. It felt rough but it was also reassuring, a ritual he performed only when he needed it. Longswords were not his favourite weapon, but this one belonged to his father, so he always made sure to keep it clean and keen. Rivulet, a broadsword in truth. A masterwork forge, supposedly, by the fabled Magorians over a thousand years ago. At least, if the tales told it true. And it had another name, inscribed in the milk-white metal just above the silver-wrought handle that had no guard, but it was some ancient runic script that had long passed out of use. Much to any Historian’s chagrin, he mused. They were potent swords that seemed to take little to care for, and with enough power behind the swing, could shear another’s steel. Upon the Frothing Maw, as it was called in their tongue, Deylin Vongar slew three master assassins before he was shot with a poisoned dart. He made it back to the Emperor to warn him and as such, his family was gifted with this blade, after a cast had been made of Deylan’s iconic sword, and the new metal was reworked into that shape. Afterwards it had belonged to their traitorous ancestor in Victum, a Drayvon, and as such, had been buried with him, believed cursed. A generation later, some luckless grave robber pilfered it and brought it to Louena to sell, only to be recognised by the Drays and taken from him. When the family split, the new Drayvon’s had claimed ownership of one of the two such swords the family owned. It nearly came to blows until the King decreed—for the possession of such blades was a Royal matter—that by rights, the Dray and Vongar family of Victum had each been gifted a sword and thus, the Drayvon family had a claim to one, so Devlin’s family were of course given the traitor’s sword, whilst the Dray family eventually lose their sword gambling. Devlin quite enjoyed that story, growing up.
            he began his first stroke of the blade, slowly and deliberately trailing the length of the metal in a shower of golden sparks, once again wondering what kind of metal it was, if not steel. Something of the colour reminded him of Lady Enton’s dress. She must have come with his cousin somehow, though he would never know how the two could have met, or why she even came in the first place. Just a lowly vassal with no fortune to gamble and no skill at arms to fight. ‘A powerful enemy’ she had said, then is she Lord Damyen’s spy? He considered. She had certainly made a move on him too, and from the little Devlin knew of girls, he definitely knew she must either have been a pleasure seeker, or sought something else of substance. Marrying into a more powerful family perhaps, or more likely, some form of information.

The End

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