The warm rays of the sun peeked through the small window, illuminating the cluttered room that Aethon shared with his mother. The air was thick with the smell of old books and dust. Aethon slowly opened his eyes, wincing in pain as he moved his broken hand. The familiar ache was a constant reminder of his recent misadventures. He had fallen asleep in his mother's room, and now, as he glanced back, he saw her still lying on the bed, fast asleep.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up, careful not to make a sound. The floorboards creaked treacherously beneath his weight, but his mother didn't stir.
Aethon's mind was made up. He needed to clear out the storage room, get rid of some old things, and maybe even make a bit of money by selling some of the items. He carefully made his way out of the house, his eyes scanning the storage room for anything of value.
The storage room was a relic of neglect, a cramped space at the back of their modest home, filled with the remnants of a life long past. Dust motes danced in the air as Aethon pushed open the door, the scent of mildew and aged wood filling his nostrils.
As he rummaged through the dusty boxes, he stumbled upon a few items that caught his eye. There was an old vase that looked like it might be worth something, a few books that seemed to be in decent condition, some old clothes that might be worth selling.
Boxes, half-rotted from damp, were stacked haphazardly against the walls,Broken furniture, rusted farming tools, and moth-eaten fabrics lay in disarray. It was a graveyard of forgotten things—things that had once belonged to his father.
Aethon's jaw tightened at the thought.
He hadn't known the man well. His father had died when he was barely old enough to remember—some distant battle, some nameless war. All that remained were fragments: a deep voice, a calloused hand ruffling his hair, and the cold, stiff body that had been returned to them in a bloodstained shroud.
At least these would go for a fair price,A rusted sickle—worth a few coppers if he polished it. A cracked wooden chest—maybe firewood. A bundle of yellowed papers—useless"
he thought to himself, mentally calculating the potential earnings. He carefully gathered the items and headed out to add them to the pile of materials to be sold.
But fate had other plans. As he walked, his foot caught on a loose board, and he stumbled, crying out in pain as he fell. "Ahhhhh fuck!" he shrieked, picking himself up slowly. He gazed around, taking in the familiar surroundings of the storage room. That's when he spotted it – a small dent in the floor, partially hidden by a pile of old boxes.
Curiosity getting the better of him, Aethon walked towards the dent, his eyes scanning the area. And then, he saw it. A long, intricately drawn sign sheath lay on the ground, partially buried in the dust. Something about it looked familiar, and as he picked it up, memories flooded back. This was the pouch that had been brought alongside his father's corpse, all those years ago.
Aethon's eyes closed involuntarily, a sign of respect for the father he had lost. His curiosity was piqued, and he gently grabbed the sword by the handle, pulling it out of the sheath,
Aethon's fingers trembled as he gripped the hilt.
The blade slid free with a whisper, the steel gleaming despite the years of neglect. It was a beautiful weapon—double-edged, with a slight curve near the tip, and a fuller running down the center like a vein of liquid silver.
A searing, white-hot agony lanced through his skull. His vision blurred, darkened, then—He was no longer in the storage room
The stench of blood and smoke filled his nostrils. The cacophony of battle roared around him—clashing steel, screaming men, the thunder of hooves.
He stood in the middle of a battlefield, the earth churned to mud beneath his boots. Corpses littered the ground, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing.
And in his hand—the sword.
But it was different now.
It pulsed with a dark, hungry energy, its edge shimmering with an eerie crimson glow.
The vision was intense, and Aethon saw the warrior become one with the sword, his movements fluid and deadly. He saw the warrior cutting down enemy after enemy, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision. The voice in his head grew louder, urging him slithering into his mind, with a cold and ancient voice
But as suddenly as it had begun, the vision ended, and Aethon regained consciousness. He stood there, panting, the sword still clutched in his hand. What had just happened? Aethon's mind was reeling with questions. He looked down at the sword, feeling an inexplicable connection to it. The voice still echoed in his mind, "Be one with the sword, overcome the death of the mortal body" in fear he threw away the sword,daring not to touch it
For a long moment, Aethon simply sat there, staring at the weapon as if it might come alive again.
His father had carried this.
Had *he* seen these visions too?
Had he heard the same voice?
Aethon's fingers curled around the hilt, but this time, nothing happened. No pain, no visions—just the cold, steady weight of steel in his grip.
But something had changed.
The air felt heavier. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed darker, deeper.
And the sword…
It felt like it was *waiting*.
Aethon exhaled slowly, forcing his racing thoughts to settle.
He couldn't sell this.
Not now.
Not after what he'd just seen.
Carefully, he sheathed the blade, his mind already whirling with possibilities. If this sword held some kind of power—some kind of legacy—then maybe, just maybe, it was the key to changing his fate.