I have been polished.

  Not in the dignified, ceremonial way befitting a relic of legendary destruction. No. I have been wiped down with a warm cloth that smells like lavender and betrayal. Ren—sweet, sun-kissed, cabbage-growing Ren—spent the morning “tidying me up” with all the reverence one might reserve for grooming a show pony.

  “There you go,” he’d said, gently scrubbing a nonexistent smudge from my blade. “All shiny again.”

  As if I wanted to be shiny. As if the Doomblade of Evernight should glisten like a cutlery advertisement. I am a blade forged in sorrow and dark fire, not an accessory for a decorative wreath.

  And now, to make matters worse, he has taken me into town.

  It’s market day.

  Which, in practice, means I am being paraded around like an emotional support sword while Ren shops for vegetables and gives unsolicited compliments to strangers.

  “Your tomatoes look so happy today,” he tells an old woman selling produce. She blushes, fans herself with a leek, and insists he take a basket “on the house.”

  I hum. Not because I approve—heavens no—but because the woman is trying to scratch behind my hilt like I’m some kind of enchanted lapdog.

  “Oh! Your sword is purring!” she squeals.

  Please stop.

  PLEASE STOP.

  We pass a group of adventurers boasting near the well. One of them has a great sword that looks like it eats rocks for breakfast. Another has matching throwing axes and a tattoo of a flaming skull on his neck. All of them are glistening with combat swagger and low self-esteem.

  Ren smiles at them. He always smiles. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

  They glance at him. Then at me.

  Then one of them snorts and says, “Nice toy, farm boy. Planning to butter your bread with that thing?”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Now, under normal circumstances, this would be the part where I telepathically set their kneecaps on fire.

  But Ren just nods cheerfully. “Actually, I use it to help with baking. Mister Glimmers here cuts pastry dough better than anything else.”

  I would like to scream. I would like to explode in righteous fury, level half the continent, and carve a new trench through time itself.

  Instead, I hum louder.

  The axe guy twitches. “Did that sword just growl at me?”

  Ren gives me a fond pat. “He’s shy.”

  I am not shy. I am wrath incarnate, trapped in a form that now smells faintly of herb butter.

  The worst part? They back off. They actually back off. One mutters something about “dangerous enchantments” and “cursed sentience” before they disappear into the crowd, trying very hard not to look spooked.

  Ren doesn’t even notice. He’s too busy buying cinnamon sticks from a vendor who looks like she’d adopt him on the spot if he asked.

  Eventually, we head back home with a satchel full of fresh bread, root vegetables, and something called “emotional clarity tea,” which Ren insists we should both try “in case the goat is holding tension.”

  I don’t even know what that means.

  But it’s only once we’re home, after the stew has been put on, the goat has been convinced not to eat the dishcloth, and the sun begins to set in soft orange streaks across the sky, that he does something I wasn’t expecting.

  He sits down. In silence.

  Not the humming silence of a man content with cabbage. A real, heavy stillness.

  He places me across his lap like a memory. And then he speaks, barely above a whisper.

  “I don’t think I’m strong enough,” he says. “To be a hero.”

  The words fall like stones into still water.

  My snark evaporates.

  Because for the first time, he isn’t smiling. His hands, usually so sure when planting or chopping or polishing or offering sandwiches to criminals, are still. His voice trembles like someone holding something too precious to let drop.

  “I know you’re special,” he says, looking at my blade as if it holds answers instead of ancient grudges. “You’re powerful. But I don’t want to fight. I want to help. I want to make things better. And I don’t know if that’s enough.”

  And against my will—against everything I am or was—I reach for him. Not physically, of course. I can’t move. But the bond between us hums with a gentle, pulsing glow. Like warmth. Like light through cold steel.

  [Bond Strengthened: +1 Mutual Trust]

  [Passive Trait Unlocked: Steady Hand – User’s Calm Increases Blade Control and Critical Kindness Effects]

  He looks down, blinking. “You’re humming again.”

  Yes. Because you absolute cinnamon-souled disaster, I see you. I don’t want to. I want to be above this. But I see you. And maybe... I believe in you.

  A little.

  Maybe.

  If you tell anyone, I will throw myself into a volcano.