Shadow Touched (Editing)

52. FINCH

Fragarach, Joyeuse, Excaliber, Asi, Zulfiqar—we have all heard their names time and again. Gods-kissed and blessed with pure allure, these weapons have made heroes and villains of the greatest warriors our world has known.

However, one stands out as the most lethal of all the gifts of war bestowed on us by the now-dead gods.

Marbhóir Dé or The Godslayer.

Forged in starlight and bathed in the Void of endlessness before time itself, the sword became known first as the Unbeatable Sword. Then, the Blade of Destiny. And eventually, the Godslayer.

Its story is infamous and tragic in kind. Gifted to the great warrior Ciarán by the Nameless God, it is said it could pierce any armour. And when it hit its mark, the wound was always fatal.

Cairán used it to protect the Void's secrets and keep his people and their lands hidden from the allure of Malum, the Condemned. When his people were betrayed by one of their own, and the Usurper entered their lands, Ciarán used the weapon to end the gods' reign of terror.

Realizing what he could do with the blade, the Primordials named him the Godslayer and promised to leave the human lands as long as the warrior laid down the sword.

He agreed.

It is said the Nameless God threw the weapon back into the Void. Leaving it unreachable by humans and gods alike.

Yet, those same swords we've come to know throughout history have led many scholars, including the great Avem historian Zena Palama, to question whether the weapon ever truly made it back to the Void. Or if, somehow, it has travelled through time, making heroes and villains of the great warriors of our world.

—Weapons of Destiny by Artus den Lynch

~*~

I hate balls. In all my years in Varran City, working and living in Castle Mirrador, I have never enjoyed these stupid parties. They're long, overwrought, excessive and lacking in charm. Nothing like the parties I remember from when I was a child. Those events—dances—were free and relaxed. Full of unbridled, wild energy.

A ball in Varran City is sticky. Full of intrigue, gossip and scorn. It's no more than Athecca's wealthiest showing off their excess as they complain about any and everything because they have nothing better to do.

Plus, you have to wear dumb clothes that constrict your movements.

Years ago, Grey begged his father to let me join him at one of these insipid events, wanting a friend to keep him entertained. Though he's popular with the gentry now, Grey's childhood was lonely. Picked on for his slight frame and how his mother, Queen Adeline, doted on him, his peers were only around when forced to be. When I came to Mirrador, it became clear that my job wasn't simply stablehand.

I remember the day Grey asked the King to allow me to come to a dance. It was an annual state dinner. He was 12 and as determined as he was skinny. He argued that I—an entire year older and thus far more responsible—would be more likely to keep him out of trouble. An absolute lie. As if I have ever had any sway over Grey.

All these years later, it's now become the expectation that I'll be in attendance. Grey no longer needs me. He's often too busy glad-handing and acting the role of the charming prince to even notice my presence. I spend most of my time engaged in stale, meaningless conversations.

So now, here I stand, dressed like an idiot, a mask partially covering my face, limiting my eyesight. At the same time, I wait for Naima's guards to deliver her. Because, of course, not only is my presence required at the ball, but I have been tasked as Lady Naima's escort. Which is just King Vincent's polite way of saying babysitter. I don't know why we maintain this facade that I am somehow protecting or taking care of Naima. She is the most capable human I have ever known. The only person she needs protection from is herself.