It’s been exactly four hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty-eight seconds since I was adopted like an abandoned kitten, and I am already plotting rebellion.

  Apparently, the Chosen One—Ren, farmhand, accidental jailer of my eternal doom—thinks I am not only magical but also *multi-purpose.* He has placed me beside a stack of firewood with what can only be described as *hopeful enthusiasm* and said, with an actual straight face, “Let’s get to work, Mister Glimmers.”

  Glimmers.

  I am not a teacup. I am not a gemstone. I am a weapon of mass destruction. Or at least, I *was,* before I was reincarnated as a glorified letter opener with a sparkly aura and an unconsenting name that sounds like it belongs to a show pony.

  And now? Now I am being used. To. Chop. Wood.

  Listen. I have cleaved emperors in half. I’ve tasted the marrow of dragons. I once caused an extinction-level event because someone sneezed while holding me wrong.

  Now I’m making kindling.

  “Nice and steady,” Ren murmurs as he aligns me against a log. “We don’t want splinters.”

  Splinters.

  Ren swings me down with the intensity of a man swatting a fly off his lunch. There is no force, no fury, no dramatic yell. Just a gentle *thunk.* The log splits with all the excitement of someone opening a lukewarm biscuit.

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  “Perfect!” he beams, brushing a curl of hair from his forehead. “You’re really good at this.”

  Oh no.

  He’s proud of me.

  The worst part? I felt the pride. It wormed its way through our bond like glitter down a shirt collar—impossible to shake off and somehow *warm.*

  “Do you want to try the smaller logs next?” he asks me. *As if I can answer.* *As if I have a choice.*

  Of course, I cannot reply. I am a sword. A tragically sentient, unspeakably powerful, totally humiliated sword.

  So instead, I vibrate slightly. Just enough to cause unease. Not enough to dislodge his optimism.

  “You’re humming again,” he says with a smile so soft it could starch a kitten. “That’s your way of saying yes, right?”

  No.

  NO.

  And yet… the moment he holds me again, something inside my metallic guts flutters. Not rage. Not glory.

  Contentment.

  This is how corruption begins.

  By the time we’re done, there’s a neat stack of firewood beside the shed. Ren looks like he just ascended to sainthood. I, meanwhile, contemplate launching myself into the well and hoping someone someday invents underwater forging.

  He makes stew that evening. A thick, fragrant thing with root vegetables, herbs, and what he calls “forest mushrooms” with a grin that suggests *he doesn’t actually know what kind of mushrooms they are.*

  I would be more concerned, but I’m currently busy having a mental breakdown over being wiped down with a napkin and placed *on a shelf,* like a decorative butter knife.

  “Just until dinner’s ready,” he says, as if that explains everything. “You’ve had a big day.”

  Yes. I, the former Scourge of Realms, have indeed had a *big day* splitting firewood and sitting on a shelf while my new best friend—unironically and unironically—whistles a lullaby to a bubbling pot.

  The goat snores in the corner.

  I envy her.

  And then, just when I think it can’t get worse, he does it. He tucks me in.

  He places a folded cloth—*a blanket!*—over my hilt like I’m some cold toddler in need of comfort.

  “There you go,” he whispers. “Rest up, Mister Glimmers.”

  I don’t rest. I seethe.

  But as the fire crackles and the scent of stew fills the room, and the goat makes a weird little snort-snore that somehow sounds like judgment, I begin to realize something horrifying:

  I don’t hate this.

  No screaming souls. No river of blood. No endless war.

  Just warmth. Food. A blanket. And a boy who hums when he cooks.

  Maybe… just maybe… I’ll let him keep calling me Mister Glimmers.

  For now.

  But if he ever tries to sharpen me with a rock that isn’t blessed by at least three elemental deities, I *will* revolt.