“The Black Blade.” Thram called out as he walked closer. He recognized the power but wasn’t sure if it was the right person.

The black mask contorted into a smile. An intimidation tactic. “You’ve heard of men? Hopefully, it was terrifying.”

“Very few have not heard of your exploit.” He emphasised that last word. Thram knew it was a sore spot for the legend.

Silence ensued.

Thram wasn’t sure if he hit a nerve or not. The man’s reaction was hard to read.

The Black Blade rasied his arms out. His blade held firmly in his right hand. “You have me at a disadvantage, dishonored knight. I can feel the branding iron’s stamp. Care to even the field?”

Thram sneered. Bastard had hit him where it hurt most, especially with its would raw after the memories. “No.”

“Matters not. Your blade will sing, and I will know your identity. Then the battle would be over.” He laughed, a shrill thing.

The black blade disappeared.

Thram pulled his sword out of its sheath. The collision sent him back a step as black garments fluttered before him. Even the sword hid in the shadows around his enemy. It made it hard to read what would happen next, but that was okay.

The blade speaks when it sings. And he could hear them all, even this evil thing.

“Your reaction is godly.” The black blade reappeared a few steps away. “But, how long will it last?”

He disappeared again.

Thram closed his eyes. He let the cold take him. The blunt blade in his hands sang a long tune. His eyes flashed a silver light. His enemy’s sword gave out a mad cackle. It retold many a story of insanity and death. Thousands have died to that blade, many unable to resist.

Many more who could never truly wield a sword. The Innocent. The Elderly. The Weak.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

No honor existed with it. No virtue.

It came from the left. A wide swing meant to take his head off.

He raised his sword and held with both hands. The collision made the shadows blow past him and reveal a surprised face beneath it all.

The enemy swung again. Only to meet Thram’s blade again.

Again.

Again.

And again they exchanged strikes. But Thram never took the offensive. He didn’t need to. This was a testament. It had been decades since he last called his power so much. He only ever used it lightly and in short bursts. But now, he knew he would have died already without it.

It was a calling to the world. A warning to all who dared stand before him and his purpose.

He would protect that boy above all else. He swore on it. He would give his heart to it.

He felt the branding iron’s stamp burn. With it came a realization both combatants learned.

Thram the Silver had returned.

“It can’t be? The Silver? Didn’t you disappear after the massacre of Kelos? What brings you here with this bastard?” The Black Blade locked swords with Thram. He spoke from a tiny distance away, close enough for his harsh whisper to reach Thram even over the ambient sounds of the forest and their blades.

Thram chose not to respond. Instead, he reveled in the freedom to bring forth his power. For too long he had been purposeless, but now he had meaning. Never again would he allow it to go. He would clutch at it with desprate hands.

He swung at the black shadows, his blunted sword glowing in silver. It was a deliberate and slow strike.

The Black Blade disappeared from his spot. Only to scream a distance away.

A superficial cut, Thram knew.

“How?” The shadows' confusion was palpable. “I traveled before you finished your strike!”

“I am the sharpened edge.” Thram began his own personal mantra.

El Cid traveled in the shadows around Thram.

“The sword that never dulls.” He stepped forward, hands creaking on the pummel of the sword.

The Black Blade felt the danger, his shadows being eroded as he watched.

“A silver light that never fades.” He raised it overhead. It lit up the clearing.

The Black Blade struck out towards Thram’s back.

“The bringer of death’s icy embrace.” He swung down. The silver light covered everything in the area. El Cid screamed as he tried to protect himself.

The battle was over.

Thram opened his eyes. He turned to look at El Cid behind him. The man had that black sword hanging limp in his hand. His transcendent power had turned off.

That prominent scar was clear as daylight to everyone. It was no longer covered by a mask of shadows.

“H-how? I was…”

Thram walked past him. It was over. He had won. There was no point in staying longer. He had to return lest something happen to his purpose. He left El Cid standing there in his lonesome.

When he returned, he found Godwin laughing with the old maid. Mother Melissa, as his Master called her, was telling him a comedic story of her younger days. It left a smile to see him safe after what could have been a horrific incident had he not stepped out there.

It may have seemed like Thram was dominant in the battle, but he knew otherwise. Once El Cid’s sword disappeared from his sight. And it was the last strike. Had he not gone all out he could be the one standing there in utter disbelief?

His last guess had been a correct one, but he wasn’t so sure he could do that multiple times in a row. Much less for an entire battle. He didn’t know how, but that evil sword hid itself…

Or maybe he was just that rusty.

He hoped it was the latter.