The Rusted Blade

Malika shivered. The events of the night still weighed heavily upon her, and it was difficult to wrap her mind around the loss of her village, the fight with the Lycanders, the destruction of the lesser deathless, and the conflict with the greater deathless. So many happenings in such a short span of time. And somehow she had escaped more or less unscathed.

Her shoulder ached, and she rubbed it absently, focused on the reeve's question. She felt the intensity of his gaze upon her, and she was hesitant to answer. The full truth was difficult enough, but a watered-down version of the blade's history was just as likely to be rejected. In the end, she cast her decision and spoke.

"This blade has sat upon my family's mantle since before my birth," she began. "It is a relic that has been passed down through my family for generations. Always it has been coated in a thick layer of rust -- always until last night when it came alive in my hands. I know little of what it does, but it is bonded to me, and I to it."