We stepped into the dim room, the air thick with the scent of old leather and rusted metal. The walls were lined with shelves stacked high with weapons of every size and shape—some pristine, some old and worn. It was a treasure trove for anyone who appreciated the art of battle or simply had the coin to spend.
At the far end of the room stood Tyrone, a stocky, rough-looking man who didn’t seem to notice us at first. He was hunched over a workbench, hammering away at something. When he turned around, his small, beady eyes widened with recognition. A grin spread across his face as he wiped his hands on a rag, though the gleam in his eyes wasn’t one of warmth—it was one of calculation.
“Thorne, Leo!” Tyrone said, his voice rough and thick with accent. “Been a while. Didn’t expect you two to come back here.” His eyes flicked over to me, appraising me with the same kind of greed that filled his every movement.
“Tyrone,” Leo said, his voice terse but his eyes gleaming with hunger. He scanned the array of waiting weapons like a kid in a candy store, his gaze locking onto the longsword Tyrone had been polishing. “How’s my girl coming along?”
“She’s nearly ready," Tyrone said, lifting the gleaming silver blade with its ornate, leather-wrapped handle. "Balance is spot on—you’re going to love her.”
Leo’s expression turned downright reverent as he reached for the sword. He let out a low, almost indecent groan. “She’s gorgeous.”
Tyrone chuckled. “Just waiting on the final jewels for the hilt,and then she’s yours. As promised.”
Leo practically bounced on the balls of his feet, barely containing his excitement. "You're a damn artist, Tyrone."
“Anything for you boys. Something else I can get for you today?”
Thorne barely acknowledged him, only offering a terse nod. “I need something. For her.”
Tyrone’s gaze shifted back to me, this time lingering a little too long. But then he shrugged, as though losing interest in me just as quickly as it had appeared.
“Something special, eh?” he muttered, turning away to rummage through a chest by the wall. “Well, I might have what you need. Hold on a sec.”
Tyrone pulled out a selection of blades and laid them out on the bench, each one gleaming faintly in the low light. All were finely crafted, their edges sharp and gleaming. Thorne made a point of examining them all closely, picking a few up, weighing them in his palm, testing their balance. His brow furrowed as he examined the craftsmanship, his focus unwavering.
But my attention was drawn elsewhere, to a simple silver chest at the back of the shop, almost hidden behind a stack of weapons. It sat there, plain yet strangely out of place amidst the polished blades and ornate handles.
"What's in there?" I asked, my voice uncharacteristically soft, as if I were unsure of even asking.
Tyrone paused mid-motion, a quick flicker of unease passing across his face before his grin returned, forced and wide. “Ah, that? Nothing you need to worry about. Just some old things I’m not keen to part with.”
But there was something about the way he said it that made my pulse quicken. There was a tension in the air, a subtle warning in his words. I couldn’t help myself—I took a step closer, my gaze locked on the chest.
Thorne, who had been inspecting a blade, glanced up, his expression unreadable. He could see my curiosity, the way I was drawn to it. Without saying a word, he took a step toward me, his presence solid and steady, the warmth of his body just behind me.
“Is there something specific in there?” he asked, his tone neutral, but there was an edge to it that made Tyrone stiffen.
Tyrone’s grin faltered for a moment before he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “Nothing for someone like you, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t be interested in it.” His eyes flicked nervously between Thorne and me. “It’s just… old junk.”
But I didn’t move. My gaze was still locked on the chest, an odd sense of familiarity creeping up my spine. There was something about it—a feeling I couldn’t shake. It tugged at me, subtle but persistent.
“Open it,” I said, surprising myself with the demand.
Thorne glanced at me, his eyes softening with a hint of something unreadable. He didn’t argue. Instead, he took a step forward, the power in his movements almost predatory. Tyrone, however, hesitated, his hand twitching as if he was about to stop us.
“Don’t make her say it again,” Thorne’s voice was low, like the growl of a predator, and Tyrone’s bravado cracked instantly. The merchant’s mouth snapped shut, and he reluctantly moved aside, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
Thorne reached for the chest. The hinges creaked as he lifted the lid, revealing dusty old objects — and one thing that caught my eye instantly. A dagger.
It wasn’t like the others. It was simple, with an aged handle, yet there was something about it that felt… familiar. My fingers tingled with the urge to touch it, and without thinking, I reached for it.
Nestled beneath a piece of blue silk, the dagger looked unassuming at first—dusty, forgotten, like something left behind in haste. But as Thorne pulled it free and turned it toward the light, something shifted.
The blade itself was long for a dagger, forged in a sleek curve that caught the dim light and reflected it like quicksilver. Its metal was not the polished steel of the others, but a softer, moonlit hue—almost silvery-blue—like it had been shaped from liquid starlight and cooled in shadow.
Its hilt was wrapped in worn midnight leather, smooth from age and touch, and just beneath the cross guard, carved into the base of the blade, was a faint symbol: a winged crest, subtle and nearly erased by time. The Virell crest.
It was neither ornate nor flashy, but there was somethingalivein the way it sat in the hand. The balance was perfect. It vibrated faintly with some kind of dormant magic, like it was waiting—watching.
