The weight on my knees was the only thing keeping me grounded. I sat in the center of the jungle, the sword across my lap, and realized I hadn't even named the damn thing yet.
The sun was trying its best to poke through the thick canopy, casting jagged, shifting shadows across the moss.
I looked down at the blade Torben had given me. It was not the custom masterpiece he had promised, but it was miles better than the sharpened branch I had been swinging around.
The blade was shorter than a standard longsword, with a gentle, wicked curve that caught the dim light.
The steel was dark—not polished or shiny, but a dull, tempered grey that looked like it had seen its fair share of blood. The hilt was wrapped in old, hardened leather, worn smooth by some nameless sellsword's grip.
It was heavy. Solid. Real.
"You need a name," I muttered, my voice sounding small against the backdrop of the massive trees.
