“Not bad, Felor,” Cyraena remarked, shifting the blade around to let the sunlight illuminate its surface. “Not bad at all.”

She ran her hand over the crescent-shaped guard, which connected seamlessly to the blade, emphasizing the craftsmanship as a single piece of wood. “What made you choose this branch specifically?” she asked.

Felor shrugged. “It was the first one I saw.”

“That’s... boring.”

“For you, I’ll say it symbolizes my birthday being on the same day as the blue moon.”

“The blue moon is a full moon, though.”

“You get the point...”

Raena laughed and turned her attention back to the sword. “The stubborn Kiiritan wood really makes this unique.”

“Unique?” Felor snorted. “Everyone on this side of the mountain has a Kiiritan Eshara. I wouldn’t call it unique.”

She lowered the blade and looked at Felor. “The grain, the texture—everything about Kiiritan trees makes each Eshara unique. It’s the natural qualities of the wood that I believe give every Kiiritan Eshara its own story. A beauty that cannot be replicated, if you will. The surface alone can speak volumes about its holder.”

That sounded awfully poetic to Felor. As far as he knew, the Eshara simply allowed people to travel freely between the other Unelan-ruled Kingdoms. That’s why he wanted one so desperately—the idea of a new life beyond the Isle was wildly appealing.

“Only so much can be said about an Eshara like...” Raena began, setting Blossom down softly onto the grass. She then reached into her cloak and pulled out her own Eshara. “This.”

The silver wood of an Elantir tree formed the sword; if it weren’t for Raena, Felor would have laughed at the thought of such trees existing. Unlike Blossom, which was made from a single piece of wood, her Eshara comprised four different parts. Its surface, flawless and devoid of the imperfections typical of ordinary wood, gleamed like finely polished metal. Despite its metallic sheen, the blade, the style of an arming sword, was unmistakably wood. The hand guard, curved to resemble an “S,” sat above a grip wrapped with red leaves—likely from the same tree. Beneath the grip sat a pommel carved to depict the symbol of the Name Vaeloria: a crown above a mountain. One side of the blade, in perfect script, read “Silver Chime,” and on the other, “Nymaril.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, only a handful of people have an Eshara made from this wood,” Raena said, gesturing toward it with her other hand.

Felor wasn’t picking up what she was trying to say. Sensing his confusion, Raena prompted, “Felor, tell me what you know about the Eshara.“

Felor scowled, “It’s like a pass of some sort. Having one gives you free access within the Five Kingdoms.”

“Partially correct,” Raena said, giving an accepting nod. “There’s more to it, of course. An Eshara is your identity. The wood it’s made from alone reveals where you’re from.”

She paused, retrieving Blossom from the grass, holding it in one hand, and Silver Chime in the other. “Kiiritan wood. You’re likely from a...” Felor raised an eyebrow. “...more humble part of the Ilfrin Archipelago. Elantir says the opposite.”

Felor’s mouth formed an “o,” as he pieced together what she was saying. She continued, “There is wood native to other Kingdoms that you won’t see here, which hints at one’s birthplace. The quality of the craftsmanship, the number of components... I’m sure you get it. They represent you without you having to introduce yourself too much.”

“And the names on both sides of the blade?” Felor asked.

Raena rolled her eyes. “Titles of some sort. I’m ‘Nymaril of the Name Vaeloria,’ or, ‘The Silver Chime of the Name Vaeloria.’ It reads both ways; the Unelan Kingdom enforces a name in their language on Kingdoms they rule, but a name in the local language adds another layer of identity. The whole thing’s basically proof of Unelan nationality.”

Felor opened his mouth to ask another question, but Raena spoke again, cutting him off. “And so, that begs the question: what is your sword’s name?”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “You don’t mean to—”

Raena let out an exaggerated groan. “By the gods, Felor. Just answer the question.”

Felor shook his head. “Th-There’s no way; you can’t...” He let his words trail off as Raena sheathed Silver Chime back within her cloak and pulled out a pointed chisel and a palm-sized rock with a flat face.

She grinned. “The name?”

Felor couldn’t believe it. Everything about this went against what he knew about the traditions surrounding the Eshara. His heart beat a hopeful rhythm, but he prayed to the gods that this wasn’t some cruel joke Raena was playing to get back at him for disappearing.

“Blossom,” he managed to say. “But the tradit—”

Immediately, Raena dropped to the ground, crossing her legs and setting Blossom on her lap. She brought the chisel to its blade and started tapping it with the rock.

Pat, pat, pat. “That is quite a beautiful name.” Pat, pat, pat. “Fitting too, I suppose, considering your Sword Art.” Pat, pat, pat.

Felor stood motionless, taking in the sight of Raena among the swaying grass and fire-like poppies. Occasionally, she would pause the rhythmic tapping to brush aside a strand of hair that fell into her vision. After a while, the tapping ceased altogether, and one side of the blade now had “Blossom” crudely scratched onto it.

She looked up and gazed into Felor’s eyes, searching. He felt the heat of a blush spread across his cheeks and was about to turn away when Raena said, “Arrastea.” Without hesitation, she flipped the blade over and began to chip away.

“Wait.” Pat, pat, pat. “Raen-“ Pat, pat, pat. “By the gods, Cyraena, wait!”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

She stopped and looked up, scowling at Felor. Suddenly, a look of recognition dawned on her face. “Oh, it means ‘Blossom’,” she said nonchalantly, before returning to her work.

Now Felor was certain she was toying with him. “What? A direct translation? That’ll get us killed!“

Still chiseling away, Raena let out such a contagious laugh that Felor couldn’t help but smile a bit. “I’m messing with you,” she exclaimed. Pat, pat, pat. “It means ‘stubborn’.”

With that, Felor’s face paled, and his smile vanished. “You can’t be serious, Raena. That violates the Unelan-Ilfrit translation laws! I’ve seen Writs hung in villages for accidentally revealing an Ilfrit meaning to Lowbloods!”

“Thank the gods I’m not a Writ, then,” she said wryly.

“No, that’s not what I’m...” Felor groaned. “And this? What are you doing? This entire thing goes against tradition! It’s-“

“Felor, please,” Raena interrupted. “That’s tradition, not law. I’ve heard of cases where friends have officiated the process of an Eshara’s creation instead of the parents.” She paused, biting her lip. “Hundreds of years ago.”

“Hundreds of years ago? How are we to tell if that’s eve-“

“Just let me finish,” her tapping stopped. “Please.”

Felor nodded and sank to the ground, silent as he watched Raena continue the creation of his Eshara. His mind was racing. She had a point; technically, there was no law requiring two parents in the naming of an Eshara. Right? Whatever the case, Felor was certain breaking long-lasting traditions was enough to earn him something worse than a beating. Suddenly, he was sick. Raena had him around her finger, not giving him enough time to think or voice his opinions until it was too late—until he realized that this wasn’t such a great idea.

He figured her out this time. “Raena. This isn’t a good idea. I’m sure you know it too. Let’s just burn the sword, and we’ll be do—”

“Done!” she exclaimed with a look of triumph. “I’d say it’s pretty good, considering I’m no woodworker.”

She turned the sword in her hands, the words “Blossom” and “Arrastea” as eye-catching as the poppies in the grass. Felor shook his head; it couldn’t be this easy.

“Raena,” he said carefully. “Just because there are words on it doesn’t make it an actual Eshara.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I’m sure there are laws in place preventing people like me from having one.”

“There aren’t.”

“Listen. I appreciate you doing this–I really do–but I never asked for this… I mean… My own Eshara…” His voice trailed off as his mind slowly understood the situation. He would get killed for this; Raena wouldn’t get off easily, either, and he didn’t want her involved in whatever might happen. Felor's stomach churned as he realized nothing could prepare him for what might happen next. Kalthorin do not bear an Eshara. He was no exception.

Felor swallowed; he reached a decision. “Destroy it. Now,” he whispered.

Raena’s smile disappeared as she brought Blossom close to her chest like a baby she was trying to protect. “Felor, you don’t underst-”

“I do understand. I understand that whatever happens after, I’m not ready to deal with it.”

“When will you ever be ready? Five years, ten years from now? Cause I guarantee you won’t be ready by then either.” Her face was calm, but her words had a sharp edge to it. “Tell me, Felor. Is it that, or are you afraid of dealing with it?”

Felor couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She wasn’t understanding. How could she not see how dangerous this was?

“Raena, this isn’t something you can get away with just cause you’re a Highblood. I don’t want you involved. Hells, I never asked for you to get involved!” Felor regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.

Whatever calmness had been on Raena’s face before was now replaced with anger. “Oh, so that’s what this is about,” she spat. “You don’t think I’ve weighed my position carefully? I’ve fought over this for years, Felor. Would it be the right choice? Am I overstepping? The day after you disappeared, I saw that tree–I saw it was missing a branch. There was no question after that; I would cast the die.”

“But why?” Felor asked. “I was just being childish. That couldn't have been the reason for you doing this.”

“The reason,” Raena scoffed. “It was one of the reasons.”

She brought Blossom’s tip to Felor’s chest, poking him slightly.

“Look at yourself, Felor! You come up here day after day and speak of nothing but the Tournament!” Her words were coming out in screams, and her body was shaking with irritation. “You look down at the trees and villages below like they’re a curse! Hells, you see yourself as a curse! You’ve left your mother alone in that cave unconscious gods know how many times! I helped you do that; I gave you that recipe! After all that, you mean to tell me there’s some small part of you that wants to stay here?”

Her words were like a slap in the face. What was he doing? Just as Raena had said, the signs were there. He hated Xylovar. Every day was a fight to keep going; training and living, hoping that one day a chance might appear. He wanted this—he knew he wanted this; that chance was looking him right in the face, but he was ready to turn it away because he was…scared?

Felor gripped the blade at his chest and looked Raena in the eyes.

“I’ll do it,” he said, taking his Eshara from her hands. “I’ll fight in the Tournament of the Isles.”

Raena sighed, her shoulders slouching as the tension escaped her body. She walked towards him until only half-a-foot of space separated them, and lowered her head to rest her face against his chest. The smell of mint was overpowering. Felor could imagine he was as red as the poppies dancing around them.

“You’re not going to destroy the Eshara, are you?” Raena asked him.

Felor laughed. “No, I won’t.”

“Good,” she replied. “You destroy your Eshara, and I have grounds to execute you on the spot, you hear me?”

Felor wasn’t sure if there was a law for that, but he held his tongue. He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. They stayed like that for a while, letting the wind brush past, rustling the leaves overhead. Felor didn’t dare move, not wanting this moment to end. Eventually though, Raena pulled away, leaving Felor with an odd sense of longing.

She brushed a few strands of hair out of her face, smiled, and said, “Congratulations on acquiring an Eshara!”

Felor returned the smile and replied, “I am in your debt, Lady Cyraena.”

She blushed and turned to face the Nameless Village below. The early bustle of the village was gone, and Felor could spot a line of white wagons off in the distance, heading towards the Tournament on the other side of the mountain.

Still facing away, Raena said, “We should go. If we leave now, we’ll arrive just before it starts.” She turned to look at Felor. “Do you know how to ride?”

“No.”

“I know. I only have one horse, anyway; we’ll go together.”

She laughed as she made her way towards the stone steps leading down from the Top.

Felor took in his surroundings. The grass and poppies appeared more vibrant than usual. Grassweaver, the sword lodged in the dirt, seemed like a toy compared to Blossom; the first time he wrapped his hands around the green Eshara–which Raena ‘borrowed’ from her cousin–felt like centuries ago. The Kiiritan tree itself appeared to be alive. Below, purple leaves rippled the same as always, yet right then, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. Whatever happened today, Felor knew he would see none of this again. Losing meant death. All because of what he was.

“Raena,” he asked. “What does Kalthorin mean?”

She turned and studied his face. Raena was quiet; unsure whether she should answer his question. Eventually, her sapphire eyes met his, her face stoic.

“It means ‘Blood of the Forsaken.’”