Darion decided to take the sword.
He would use it as his own, that was if it proved to be good. But it seemed solid and really long, so it should be.
The blade was well-balanced, its edge still sharp despite years of neglect. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather that had dried with age but still felt comfortable in his grip. He swung it once, testing the weight. It felt right.
He took it with him.
And it wasn't like he fought that much. He didn't fight, even. He would hold it, and when things got tough, he would give it to Ghet Ulg or Edric Vorne to do the job for him.
That was how things worked now. His undead knights were his weapons. He didn't need to swing a sword when he had an army that could swing them for him.
Still, having a good sword at his side felt right. It was a symbol, a reminder of the power he had discovered in the hidden room. And it was a connection to Percvale's past, to the people who had lived here before him.
