The Living Blade

The crypt was silent, save for the echo of my own breath.

There it sat upon the altar, the legendary Silver Sunderer. Ancient legends spoke

of its thirst for the blood of kings. As my fingers closed around the

hilt, it did not feel like steel. The leather grip pulsed like a

dying heart, wet and rhythmic. A yellow eye blinked open from the crossguard,

staring into my soul. I was not the wielder. I was merely

the next course.