Rachel Turner

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Mondays are the worst. It’s not even up for debate. Mondays are the soggy crisps at the bottom of the bag, the bit of tea that sloshes out of the mug onto your desk, and the moment you realize your umbrella is still at home right as the rain starts.

Today was a particularly Monday-ish Monday.

The office was a zoo from the second I walked in. Phones ringing nonstop, patients sighing loudly because their 9:30 appointment didn’t start at 9:29, and Gemma having a meltdown over printer toner.

“Rachel, the printer’s out again!” she called, waving a stack of half-printed forms like a white flag of surrender.

“It’s not out,” I said without looking up from my desk. “It just hates you. Try being nice to it.”

She groaned and stomped off, muttering something about how I was no help at all. She wasn’t wrong, but I didn’t care. Mondays demanded a certain level of indifference to survive, and I wasn’t about to blow all my energy fixing a bloody printer.

By the time the clock hit five, I was practically sprinting for the door. I didn’t even bother saying goodbye to Gemma, who was still wrestling with the printer like it was a particularly stubborn crocodile.

Outside, London was its usual self—grey, busy, and slightly damp. The kind of weather that made you wonder why umbrellas weren’t just surgically attached at birth. I pulled my coat tighter and started walking, weaving through the after-work crowd with the practiced ease of someone who’d been doing this dance for years.

My destination? The Green Dragon, a little pub tucked away down a side street that most tourists couldn’t find if you handed them a map and a compass.

“Rachel!”

The shout came from the corner as soon as I stepped inside, and I spotted Emma waving at me like a lunatic. She was already halfway through a pint, her dark curls a frizzy halo around her face.

“Hey,” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.

“You’re late,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“I’m always late,” I shot back, peeling off my coat. “You know this. You’ve accepted this about me. Now shut up and tell me what we’re drinking.”

Emma grinned, raising her glass. “Lager for me, gin and tonic for you. I ordered it ten minutes ago because I’m a saint.”

“You’re insufferable,” I muttered, but I couldn’t help smiling.

The pub was warm and cozy, the low hum of conversation blending with the faint crackle of a fire in the corner. It smelled like spilled beer and fried food, and honestly, it was perfect.

“So,” Emma said, leaning forward. “How was work? Did Gemma survive the day?”

“Barely,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. “She and the printer are locked in a feud that will probably outlast us all. I’m thinking of selling tickets.”

Emma laughed, shaking her head. “You’re terrible.”

“Accurate,” I said, raising my glass in mock agreement.

For the next hour, we talked about everything and nothing. Work drama, terrible Tinder dates, that one time Emma got lost trying to find the Natural History Museum and ended up in someone’s private garden.

But as much as I loved these nights, there was always a part of me that felt…restless. Like I was going through the motions of a life that didn’t quite fit.

At one point, Emma paused mid-story to take another sip of her pint, and I found myself staring at the scarred wood of the table, my fingers tracing the edges of an old cigarette burn.

“You alright?” she asked, tilting her head.

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“Yeah,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

Emma raised an eyebrow. “That convincing, huh? What’s going on, Rach?”

I hesitated, trying to put it into words. “I don’t know. I just…feel stuck, you know?”

“Stuck how?”

“Like…” I gestured vaguely, searching for the right analogy. “Like I’m on a treadmill, but someone’s replaced the scenery with a loop of Gemma complaining about toner and patients moaning about fillings.”

Emma snorted. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse,” I said, draining the last of my drink.

She frowned, her teasing tone fading. “Have you thought about, I don’t know, trying something new? A new job, a new hobby, something that doesn’t involve Gemma?”

“All the time,” I admitted. “But it’s not that simple. Jobs don’t grow on trees, and hobbies cost money. Besides, what would I even do? Take up knitting? Join a cult? Move to the countryside and start a llama farm?”

Emma grinned. “I vote llama farm. You could sell their wool to Gemma so she can knit herself a life.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re overthinking,” she said, nudging my arm. “You’ve got time, Rach. Life doesn’t have to be figured out by five o’clock on a Monday.”

I wanted to believe her. I really did. But as the night wore on and the pub grew louder, that nagging sense of restlessness refused to let go.

We were three drinks in when Emma leaned back in her chair, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” she began, dragging out the words, “I’ve got an idea.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”

“Always,” she said, her grin widening. “But seriously, hear me out. There’s this new exhibit at the British Museum—opened today. It’s all old weapons and armor. I read about it this morning. Thought it might be up your alley.”

“An exhibit?” I repeated, skeptical. “Emma, it’s nearly nine. Do museums even stay open this late?”

“This one does,” she said, wagging a finger. “It’s some special late-night thing for the opening week. They’re calling it…uh…” She snapped her fingers, trying to remember. “Knights and Swords? No, wait—Blades of History. That’s it.”

I snorted. “Blades of History? Sounds like something from a bad action movie.”

“Maybe, but come on. You used to be into this stuff,” she said, her tone softening. “When’s the last time you actually got excited about something?”

I hesitated, caught off guard by the question. The truth was, I couldn’t remember. Fencing used to be my whole world, but now it was just a set of dusty sabers on my wall.

“Alright,” I said finally, draining the last of my gin and tonic. “Let’s do it. But if it’s just a bunch of rusty daggers and broken shields, you owe me a pint.”

Emma laughed, slapping the table. “Deal. Let’s go.”

The British Museum was stunning at night. The grand facade was bathed in soft yellow light, and the usual tourist crowds were replaced by a quieter, more subdued atmosphere.

Inside, the exhibit was tucked away in a corner of the museum, separated from the main halls by heavy velvet ropes and a sign that read: Blades of History – Unearthed and Unveiled.

“Unearthed and unveiled,” I muttered as we entered. “They’re really leaning into the drama, huh?”

Emma smirked. “You love it.”

The exhibit itself was…impressive. Rows of glass cases lined the walls, each one displaying a carefully curated piece of history. Swords, spears, and shields, some gleaming with careful restoration, others darkened with the patina of age.

Plaques detailed the origins of each weapon, the battles they’d seen, the hands that had wielded them. It was the kind of thing I would’ve devoured years ago, back when I still dreamed about making history instead of filing dental records.

One display caught my eye—a rapier mounted on a velvet backdrop, its blade slim and elegant, its hilt intricately wrought with swirling designs.

But it wasn’t the craftsmanship that drew me in. It was the runes etched into the blade, faint but unmistakable.

“Look at this,” I said, motioning for Emma to join me.

She leaned in, squinting at the plaque. “‘Seventeenth-century rapier, discovered in a French chateau. Believed to have been ceremonial due to the runic inscriptions along the blade.’”

“Runic?” I repeated, tilting my head. “That doesn’t make sense. Rapiers aren’t exactly Viking weapons.”

“Maybe it’s a mix?” Emma offered. “You know, like…a really weird collaboration?”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Sure. The world’s first fusion fencer-slash-sorcerer. Makes total sense.”

But as I stared at the blade, a strange feeling prickled at the back of my neck. It wasn’t just the runes. Something about the rapier felt…off. Like it didn’t belong here—or maybe like I didn’t belong here, standing in front of it.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the museum will be closing in fifteen minutes,” a voice crackled over the intercom.

Emma sighed. “Guess that’s our cue. Ready to go?”

“Yeah,” I said, tearing my gaze away from the rapier. “Just…give me a sec.”

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, heading toward the exit while I lingered by the display.

I couldn’t explain why, but I felt compelled to look at it one last time.

The runes seemed to shimmer faintly under the light, though I knew it had to be my imagination. Still, the pull was undeniable, like the rapier was whispering something I couldn’t quite hear.

Before I realized what I was doing, I reached out, my fingers brushing the edge of the glass case.

And then the world tilted.

It wasn’t dramatic—not at first. No flash of light, no thunderclap. Just a soft hum, so faint I almost didn’t notice it. But the hum grew louder, vibrating through my chest and up into my skull, until it was the only thing I could hear.

My vision blurred, and for a moment, I thought I was fainting. The room around me seemed to twist and bend, the air growing thick and heavy.

“Emma?” I tried to call out, but my voice felt distant, muffled.

The last thing I saw was the rapier, its blade glowing faintly, the runes flaring to life in a brilliant, unnatural light.

And then everything went dark.