This short story takes place many thousands of years before my the time of my novels. The witch, Accipietri, known in later years as the Windhawk, is a figure of legend, the details of her life lost to the mists of history. However, her sword survived, passed down through many hands until the present day, and it does, eventually, figure into the novels I am currently writing.
A Good Sword
As always, the doll awoke with the rising of the sun.
It stretched, though it didn’t have muscles to stretch with. Not anymore. It extended its wooden arms and mimicked a large, slow yawn. It never breathed, so it wasn’t sure why it yawned each morning, but its witch seemed to find the display amusing, so it continued to do so, every day, without fail. Its role was not to wonder or ask why, so it did not bother worrying about such things.
It noted with a little jump of surprise that it was not sitting in its usual chair in the corner. It was slumped down against a wall just in front of its mistress’ door. There was a moment of curiosity, but that passed quickly. It remembered, vaguely, falling back into torpor here, before its witch’s door, in case she had need of it during the night, and it knew on some level that this was a very peculiar thing for it to do, but, again, it wasn’t really designed to worry about such things. The thoughts faded to be replaced by a more constant thought, one that seemed to always run through its head.
“This one is a good doll. This one does what a good doll does.”
It stood, looking towards its witch’s bedroom door for a moment before deciding against disturbing her. It was still very early, and Mistress Hiera liked to sleep in. Instead, the doll busied itself with daily morning chores: dusting, setting a pot to boil above the hearth for tea, sweeping. Hiera’s familiars needed their daily feeding, and the plants outside needed weeding and watering. Its witch liked the house kept neat and tidy, and so it made sure the house was neat and tidy. When its witch was happy, it knew it was a good doll, and that was its sole desire: to be good.
By the time it was finished with its chores, the teapot was cold, still sitting untouched on the table where the doll had left it. A small tinge of curiosity, almost bordering on concern, moved across the doll’s mind, but the thoughts just as quickly passed. These were not thoughts required to be a good doll, so they were discarded. Still, there was tea waiting to be drunk, and the morning had passed into the afternoon. Mistress Hiera likely had much work she’d want to get done today, and so the doll decided that the time had come to awaken its witch. It slowly opened its mistress’ bedroom door and looked inside.
It noted that Mistress Hiera’s bed had not been slept in. If there was the vaguest hint of puzzlement, perhaps the beginnings of concern that its witch had not been home in days, such thoughts passed very quickly. The doll was not really able to grasp things such as the passage of time, not anymore. Its mind was not really designed to be able to understand that. Worry or concern were emotions foreign to the doll. All it knew was what was expected of a good doll, and all it felt was the desire to do those things. It forgot all about its concern and moved into the room, dusting and making sure the bedsheets were straight, and then quietly closing the door after it as it left.
It made a fresh pot of tea, and then sat quietly in a corner for several hours. As the sun’s rays moved slowly across the rooms of the house and afternoon stretched out into evening, the doll awoke again. It noted that the tea again sat undrunk. It dumped the tea outside and set to washing the cups and the pot. Its witch must have gone out. She often did that. Perhaps she would be home soon. Regardless, there were cups to put away, and then shutters to close before ensuring that the house was secure for the night. The doll busied itself. Familiars needed their evening feeding. The wood of one of the tables looked dingy and needed polishing. The doll’s own arms needed their own fresh coat of polish. Hours after the sun went down, it finished its work, and nodded, satisfied. It was a good doll, and while on some level that was enough to sustain it, it still was excited that Mistress Hiera would tell it how good it had been when she saw how neat and tidy the house was.
The doll popped its head into its witch’s bedchambers to ask if she needed anything before bedtime, and was puzzled that the room was empty, the bed unslept in. The doll shook its head as if to clear away the confusion, but then it quietly closed the door. A witch keeps her own schedule, it thought. Good dolls don’t worry about such things. Good dolls don’t think. It was getting late, so it moved over to its chair in the corner, and sat, allowing itself to begin slipping into torpor for the night.
It stood up, shaking its head. Its mistress might come home late, and might need some tea or something else. It moved over and sat down in front of its mistress’ bedroom door, leaning against the wall, and then it let its meager consciousness drift away. When Mistress Hiera came home, it would be close at hand, should she need anything.
As always, the doll awoke with the rising of the sun. It noted with a little jump of surprise that it was not sitting in its usual chair in the corner. It was slumped down against a wall just in front of its mistress’ door. There was a moment of curiosity, but that passed quickly...
As always, the doll awoke with the rising of the sun...
As always, the doll awoke with the rising of the sun...
As always...
---
It was a stormy evening when the doll, busy washing a dirty tea pot, noted the sound of bootsteps coming up the path. The rain and wind were beating against the closed shutters, and occasionally came the low grumbling of far-off thunder. The doll stopped and carefully set down the pot, and then turned to face the door. It knew that the footsteps were not those of its witch, and so it readied itself to greet this new visitor to its witch’s home.
The door opened, slowly, and a figure stepped into the room. It turned and closed the door quickly behind itself, and then stood in the entryway, dripping. The doll stepped forward towards the door to greet the newcomer.
“Hello, this one's mistress is not currently at home. If you would care to leave your name this one will tell her of your visit when she returns.”
The figure removed a tall, pointed hat from atop its head and hung it on a standing rack near the door. It shrugged out of a long leather coat and hung it below the hat. It stood, and stretched, and ran its fingers through its long, greying hair, and then turned to face the doll.
The doll knew this figure. It was…
“Mistress Accipietri! Please come in! This one's mistress is not currently at home but this one can put on some tea if you wish to wait for her…”
The old witch Accipietri stood, watching the doll, a pained expression on her face. The doll wasn’t capable of understanding the meaning of the look on the witch’s face, so it stood, waiting for her answer. Finally, the old witch sighed, and shook her head.
“No, no tea this evening, thank you. I’ve come to speak with you, in fact. Why don’t we have a seat at the table and we can talk?”
The feeling of puzzlement, of confusion, lanced through the doll’s mind for just a moment before vanishing again. Such feelings weren’t the sorts of things a good doll would feel. All it should feel is the desire to do its mistress’ bidding. There simply was no room in its mind for anything else. Still, Mistress Accipietri was the teacher of its own mistress. She had trained Mistress Hiera! In fact, in some dormant and buried part of the doll’s few memories, it knew that it had been a gift from the old witch to Mistress Hiera, and so it was only right that it should obey Mistress Accipietri as well, at least while its own witch was out. The doll walked over to the table, and stood, confused for several moments while it tried to figure out what to do. No one had ever invited it to sit at the table before.
Mistress Accipietri pulled out one of the chairs and gestured towards it. The doll sat down without thinking, and the old witch sat down in another chair next to it. She stared at the doll for several more long moments before speaking again.
“How long…” she started, but stopped herself. She took a deep breath. “Doll. Do you know how long your mistress has been out?”
“This one is not certain, Mistress Accipietri. It checked her bedchamber earlier and her bed had not been slept in.”
“I want you to listen very carefully, doll. I require exact information, and a good doll would provide me what I need. How long has Hiera been gone?”
Memories that had not been needed before, and thus had been buried away somewhere, leapt to the surface in response to the need of a witch. The doll’s mind calculated for several seconds and then it answered. “Mistress Hiera left sometime in the night while this one was undergoing its daily torpor cycle. Nine hundred and five days have passed since Mistress Hiera’s departure.”
As soon as the words left its lips, the doll’s mind was lanced with a sudden terror, a sinking feeling of loss, and something more… some old pain that should have been excised forever but was still…
The thoughts were gone as soon as they arrived. Such things were not at all appropriate for a good doll, and this one was a very good doll. Mistress Hiera had told it so many times, and it worked hard so that Mistress Hiera would continue to think so. The doll resumed its pose, still, and its mind blank, waiting on the aged witch’s next command.
“That wasn’t enough,” the old witch muttered. “You’re still fighting it. I have need of you, and you’re of no use to me as you are. I’m so sorry, you poor thing. I’m going to have to break my promise.”
“What does mistress require of this one? It is ready to serve however it can.”
The old witch hung her head and took several deep breaths. When she looked up again, her face was set, her expression a mix of determination and very old pain.
“I want you to listen to a story, doll. It’s the story of how I failed. How I was weak, and made a terrible mistake.”
That same feeling of terrible loss passed through the doll’s mind again, but was just as quickly quashed. The doll felt a lingering feeling that something was wrong, terribly wrong, but it felt terrible for feeling that, so that feeling soon faded as well.
“The world out there,” said the witch, looking towards the door, “is a dark and cruel place. Everywhere I’ve gone, from the far north to the deserts of the south, all the way east beyond Axia, I’ve found wickedness. Angry, fearful people, selfish and violent and cruel. Everywhere I’ve seen injustice, and inhumanity, and even among the dragons and the gnomes and the fulians it’s the same. The gods have abandoned this world, and in their wake they left only misery and despair.”
The witch sat quietly, as if waiting for the doll to say something, but it would be rude to interrupt a witch’s story, so it simply waited, silently. Finally, Accipietri sighed, and continued.
“Before I took Hiera as my apprentice,” said the witch, very slowly, “I had a family. I had three wives and two husbands, and we all lived together very happily. We had many children. They were all taken from me. Every one of them. Cruel people, powerful people, people who thought that they had the right to hurt others, own others, dominate others, took them away from me. I wasn’t as powerful back then, and so I couldn’t protect my family. I spent years immersed in all of the darkest forms of magic in order to claim the power to take my revenge.”
The witch looked back towards the door. “I took my revenge. I found every last warlord who had enslaved and murdered my children, and I flayed them alive. I found every bandit and slaver and random thug who’d killed my loves and my babies and I made bloody examples of all of them all across the lands. I left a sea of bodies in my wake, and when I was done, I thought that at last I could rest. I thought that it was enough blood to satisfy me.”
The witch wiped at her eyes with a sleeve from her long gown. “On the way back to my home, I came across a village. It was being assailed by a gang of bandits. I’d dealt with powerful invincible warlords, and these were amateurs in comparison. Just common ruffians. I easily defeated them all with my new powers, and then I made my first mistake. I left them alive.”
The witch sobbed for just a moment, but then sat up straighter. “I thought enough blood had been spilt. I wanted an end to the violence, and so I thwarted and humiliated the bandits, but let them flee. I warned them to never return to that village, and I helped the people that the bandits had hurt. I healed who I could, and helped them to rebuild, and then I went home. I took on an apprentice, and everything seemed better. I tried to rebuild my life. I was happy, after a fashion. It was not the joy I had felt with my family, but still I was happy.”
The witch fell silent, staring at the doll for a long time.
It wasn’t at all appropriate, a question should never have formed in the doll’s mind, but somehow, unbidden, one came anyway. “What happened to Mistress Hiera?”
Accipietri lowered her head. “Those same bandits returned, and when Hiera went down to the village for supplies, they attacked her. They cut off her head and left it on a spike for me to find in the village square, and then they burned down the village and killed everyone else living there.”
The doll’s mind was racing, thoughts and memories, the faces of the villagers it had known back before… wait, it had memories? Memories of what? Of who…? No, bad doll BAD DOLL BAD DOLL.
Above those thoughts came a crushing sadness as it realized that its mistress was gone, forever. That it would never hear Mistress Hiera call it a good doll ever again. That somehow, in some way, it had failed.
Programming kicked in and forced a single thought above the tumult of emotions and competing impulses. “This one… belongs to Mistress Accipietri now?”
“No,” said the old witch. “No, we need to do better than that.”
She stared at the doll for a very long time before speaking again. “There was a woman who lived in that village. Back before I took an apprentice. Back when I first saved it from those bandits. I saved many people back then, but I wasn’t able to save her. She had been gravely injured by those bandits before I arrived and drove them off. The wounds were far too old for me to heal properly, and the damage they’d done extended beyond the physical… she…” The witch’s voice trailed off. When she spoke again, Accipietri’s voice was ragged. “She begged me for a clean death. None of her fellow villagers were willing to give it to her, but she knew my reputation. She knew I was a killer, and she begged me to kill her. But I thought I was done with killing. I had let the bandits flee, and I could not bring myself to kill this woman either. And that was my second mistake. I wronged this woman by not giving her the mercy she begged of me. I was so tired of all of the blood and pain, and I wanted only to go home. I never wanted to end another life.”
“What happened to the woman, mistress?” asked the doll. All thoughts of propriety were gone now, and for some reason the doll had to know.
“I…” The old witch paused. Then she leaned forward and patted the doll gently on one of its wooden arms. “I found her a job somewhere that she could be happy and forget all of her pain. I promised her that she would never feel sorrow or pain again.”
The doll said, “Oh, that was very kind of you, mistress!” but somewhere, deep inside, it felt something alien, something it should not have been feeling. It felt… sad? No… angry? Maybe a little bit of both?
The doll shook its head, as if to clear it, and asked another question that had risen to the surface. “The bandits, mistress. What became of them?”
“When I saw poor Hiera’s head on a spike, I realized I couldn’t hide from this world’s injustices anymore, and it was time to take a direct hand. I thought I could wash my hands of blood, but I was lying to myself.”
The witch reached into her gown and pulled forth a handful of small objects, placing them on the table. The doll looked, curiously, and saw a good dozen or so small toy figurines. They were in the shape of men, but carved from some sort of shiny stone. The doll reached out its hand towards the figures, but then recoiled. It felt… it could feel fear, terror, pain, emanating from the figurines. Terror and horrible, horrible pain! I knew for just a moment what that meant, and then that thought fled because that was absolutely not something a good doll should be thinking about at all!
The witch reached down and poked at one of the figures. The doll could feel a silent scream pulse from it, inaudible to human ears but loud and clear to something like it was, another doll like it was, an inanimate figure given life by the soul of a human like it was. The doll couldn’t feel pain or fear like these figurines could, but somehow it knew that these figures were still a kindred sort of creation. And with that thought came the realization that it was also nothing more than an inanimate object given life by a human soul… and then it wondered “whose soul?” but that thought was driven away before it could even fully form.
“This one is a good doll, This one is a good doll, This one is a good doll, This one is a good doll…”
“These are the few bandits that survived my initial rage,” said the witch. “I killed most of their group, but I decided that some of them required special punishment. This one,” she said, knocking over one of the figures, “was their leader. This one is the one that actually swung the ax that killed poor Hiera. This one started the fire that burned down the village…” The witch shook her head, sadly. “I worked little thorns into their design. Tiny little thorns to poke at their tiny little souls so I can listen to their tiny little screams.”
The witch raised her hand and a tiny spark of flame appeared on the tip of her index finger. She pointed it at the small collection of figurines and a gout of flame engulfed them. They melted surprisingly quickly, and the sounds of screaming faded away. The witch sighed. “Enough dwelling on the past.”
She looked back at the doll, grimacing. “I failed you, child. I bound these men’s souls and spent the last two years listening to their screams, thinking it would satisfy me, but it wasn’t enough. And I left you here, working. I have to admit, I forgot all about you. I decided to let poor Hiera’s house fall into ruin, and here you were keeping it up this whole time.” The witch reached over and patted the doll’s arm again. “Faithful, good doll. I’m so, so sorry for what I have to do to you.”
It wasn’t right to ask what the witch was planning. It was not something a good doll would do. But it needed to know. Its thoughts were tumbling all over each other… it had thoughts, and that was a problem too! It needed an answer so it could settle its mind and get back to its duties, get back to not thinking again.
“W-what… what… what is Mistress’… what does… what does she need from this one?”
Accipietri smiled, and it wasn’t a kind smile. “I’m going to root out injustice wherever it hides and lay it bare for the world to see. I am going to destroy the wicked, without apology and without mercy. I am going to find those who hurt others and I will hurt them. I will make them suffer, and beg for mercy, and then I will destroy them.”
The doll wasn’t capable of making facial expressions, but horror would have been on its face were such a thing possible. Somehow the witch could tell, and she took the doll’s wooden hands in her own. “I’m afraid, doll. I’m afraid of what I did to those men. I kept them alive for the last two years in constant torment. They’re at peace now, not that they deserve it, but what does that say about me? I tortured them for two years before I let them rest! I know now what I’m capable of. I’m very afraid that if I do this alone, if I go out there with my magic, I’m going to kill everyone I find. I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself. I’ll start with the worst of them, yes, but sooner or later I’ll lose the ability to differentiate real injustice from just… selfishness. And everyone’s selfish, aren’t they? I’m going to just keep killing and killing and killing and killing and then eventually I shall be killed myself. I need something to focus all of this rage, all of this anger. I need someone who can know when to rein me in. I need a tool… a weapon, and you’re going to be it.”
The doll tried to pull its hands back, which was wrong. So wrong. It was a bad doll! But no… it wasn’t. Bad. Or a doll, even. Wait… was it? Thoughts and images were flashing across its mind, memories of fire and hurt and shame and pain and anger and also love and peace and friends and family and caring and devotion and no small amount of tenderness. There were two people present, it seemed, two people in its mind! Two people, and there wasn’t enough room for both of them! The doll felt as if its mind would burst from the pressure of it all.
The witch leaned forward. “Are you in there, yet? Are you back? Oh, you’re going to hate me for this, aren’t you? Well, there’s no help for it. I need you, and the world needs me, so we’ll just have to suffer together, won’t we?”
Accipietri stood from the table, crossing around to stand behind where the doll was sitting. “I should have come and fetched you as soon as I realized that you were here, not let you languish away here, laboring for a mistress who was long dead. I’m sorry for that, but I had some errands to run before I could come and fetch you. I stole this.” The witch held up a small round chunk of green gemstone. “The dragons will never forgive me when they find out I damaged their sacred jewel, but I needed some of its power. That power, combined with your old anger and hate, but also combined with your new love and devotion, combined with my desire, well… maybe it will make something useful.”
The witch pulled a knife from her belt. Without another word, she plunged it into the head of the doll. She stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, chipping away at the wood until a large hole had been opened in the doll’s head. It didn’t hurt. The doll couldn’t feel pain, but it was concerned. What was mistress doing?
Accipietri withdrew her knife and set it on the table. Then she took the small piece of green gemstone and held it up to the light. She watched it, turning it, letting the light glint off of it. Then she slammed it down into the hole she had created, shoving it into the doll’s head. “This is going to hurt. Sorry, I guess.”
There was so much pain. The doll hadn’t ever felt pain. Well, not never. It had been a long time, though. It couldn’t feel pain any more, that’s what it had meant to think. Wait, any more…? When had it ever felt pain? Dolls don’t feel pain… but before it was a doll… was there a before…? But now there was pain. Oh, now… now… now… Its mind was splitting, its head was leaking, its thoughts were flowing, its brain was exploding… it was going somewhere… somewhere… like water circling a drain and flowing down down down down round and round and round down the drain down the drain out and through and into… something… new…
Darkness.
Hammer on steel.
Hammer on steel.
Hammer on steel.
Fire.
Hammer.
Hammer.
Hammer.
Water.
Hammer.
Hammer.
Hammer.
Low chanting… and a unity… something sliding into place… and then water again…
---
She awoke with the rising of the sun. Her witch drew her for the first time as the sun’s rays crept over the horizon. She felt the air all along the length of herself, along her sharp edge, and she burst into flame.
It did not burn her. It was a holy flame, a cleansing flame, a flame of justice. It could never hurt her, because it was her flame. This flame would burn the impure, the unrighteous, the wicked. It was a flame of righteous fury in defense of the weak and against the strong. It was a just fire, and it was a pure fire, but it also was a merciless fire. Her edge was sharp. Her steel was strong, but it was cold. Her hilt was wrapped tightly, and the witch Accipietri held her firmly, high above her head, to catch that first morning’s sun. The sword felt the rays slide over her form, felt the light glinting and reflecting off of her edges, and she let her flame brighten in response. The green gem in her pommel caught the light and scattered it, casting green dots of light all across her witch’s face.
The witch drew back the sword and swiped through the air, once, twice. It was awkward, unpracticed. The sword laughed, thinking the whole thing very amusing.
“Why do you laugh, doll?”
“Do not call me that again, old witch. When you made me into that doll you took away everything that I was.”
“I kept you alive.”
“I asked you to kill me.”
Accipietri shook her head. “You know I couldn’t. I’d sworn off killing back then.”
“Yet now you have rediscovered your taste for blood, and still you will not let me die! You killed the bandits, even those you were torturing, and yet me, you keep alive!”
“I need you.”
“And I hate you.”
“I don’t need you to love me for this to work.”
“And what, exactly, is this?”
“Justice,” said the witch. “In life you were a respected and wise woman. You had children you loved and cared for deeply. You had friends. You knew love, and you knew compassion. In death, you felt anger and fear and hate. You knew pain, and you knew what it is to be powerless. You know wisdom and you know kindness, and you know the suffering of the weak. In the life I gave you, you felt the devotion of sweet Hiera. You could feel how she cared for you, and that love is a part of you as well. It makes you something better than I can be. You have a strong sense of justice, but you also know what love is. I think you can show mercy when I can’t. I’ve amplified the best parts of you, the parts I needed, and laid them into the blade. I’ve made you into an instrument of good in a dark and evil world. I think if the two of us work together, we can cleanse this world of injustice.”
“Cleanse this world? A witch and a magic sword, and you think we can rid the world of all of its injustice? An impossible task!”
“Someone has to try, and we have to start somewhere.”
“You barely know how to hold me properly. You’ve never used a sword in your life!”
“I learned magic when I needed to. I’ll learn to use a sword. And if someone better at swords comes along and kills me, then someone else will pick you up and carry on the work.”
“So… you get to die, then, and I get to keep on living.”
“Yes, that’s the idea.”
“For how long?”
“Until the work is complete.”
The sword fell silent. When she spoke again, her voice held no trace of the amusement it had held before.
“I hate you.”
“You said that already.”
The sword didn’t answer that. Her thoughts were racing. She had thoughts, of course she had thoughts! It was not bad to have thoughts. How dare that old witch imprison her in a doll and call it kindness. She wasn’t lying when she said she hated the old witch.
And yet…
And yet she thought about what the witch was proposing. Wandering the land, slaying the wicked, defending the weak, fighting for those who could not fight. Dispensing bloody justice. Tempering rage with mercy, kindness with cruelty, and bathing in blood…
She was excited for it. Despite everything, she really wanted to just feel herself sink into someone’s flesh, to leave behind a gaping wound, and to know that with her own sharp edge she had removed something awful from the world.
She knew that this was part of the witch’s magic. Just as Accipietri had excised those inconvenient parts of her when her mind was stuffed into that doll, the witch had done the same here. She’d “amplified the best parts.” Of course the sword would want this. She had been designed to want this. She had no choice. And for that she hated the witch as well.
But she didn’t have to love the witch for this to work.
She thought, with wry amusement, that whatever else she felt, hate or love, Accipietri was right. It might be an impossible task, to cleanse the world of injustice with a sword, but someone had to start somewhere. It might as well be the two of them.
She wasn’t going to call the witch mistress anymore, though. To hell with that!
Despite herself, the sword started to feel excited, and she felt her flame brightening in response. She let it flare up for a moment, feeling it heat the air, but not harming her or the witch holding her.
She felt doors opening within her mind, memories and feelings that had been locked away from her for a long time. Friends and family and enemies, love and caring and tenderness and hate and fear and pain and laughter and tears and fear and joy. More years after that quietly with her old mistress, a deep sorrow overlaying all of it. She let the feelings wash over her for a moment, but then firmly closed all of those doors. They’d be there later if she needed them, but now she had better things to worry about.
She could feel, woven into her, no small amount of power, magic that Accipietri had cut out of her own witch soul, power that the witch would never be able to recover, power that was now a part of the sword, sacrificed to make her into an even more potent weapon. She knew that she could grant some of that power to whoever held her, strength and will to carry her wielder through the hardest times. She noticed other doors in her mind, hiding rooms full of information. She saw scrolls and tomes and testimony of ancient warriors giving accounts of ancient battles, famous duels, the long history and practice of combat. She was filled with all sorts of sword-fighting techniques, most of it entirely inappropriate to the style of blade that she was. She stifled a chuckle. Accipietri really was unprepared for this. She’d never survive this alone. The witch really did need her, and that gave her a thrill of joy that almost, but not entirely, overshadowed her hate.
“I am a good sword,” she thought. “A very good sword.”
She exerted her will, and the witch’s arm moved up, and over to the right, held high, before coming down in a wicked slash through the air. The witch’s eyes widened in shock, and she fought against the movement of her own arm for a moment. The sword couldn’t force her to do anything she didn’t want to do, but after a moment the witch relented, and allowed the sword to be in control for a few moments. The two of them executed a very basic practice form, and when the blade came to rest, the witch’s eyes were wide in awe and wonder. The sword laughed. It seemed that Accipietri wasn’t in charge anymore. They would no longer be “mistress” and “doll.” They would share power now, share in this mission, and they would have to work together if this was going to work.
The sword’s laughter didn’t reduce her anger or hate towards Accipietri one bit… but the old witch was right. The sword didn’t need to love the witch for this to work.
“Very well then,” said the sword, its voice feigning weariness to hide its own eagerness. “Where do we start?”
No comments:
Post a Comment