[https://i.imgur.com/VGCFMQy.png]

Obit lay still on the bed, his bed, he supposed. It was softer, more comfortable than the bed he'd slept in every night of his life. It was perfect in every way, from the gentle coolness of the fabric to the mattress that felt like a downy hug. Even the gentle fresh scent that the sheets gave off was beyond reproach.

It was wrong, though. It felt unwelcoming in its perfection. His bed had been much less, but it had been the bed he'd grown up in. His bed, his house, his village, his family. It was all gone, washed away by Old Mother Hecate.

With a mental effort, he looked up slightly at the sword, Un. It rested easily, three-dozen feet away, on the desk on the far side of the palatial room. The fantastical sculpting of the gold detailing of the desk's lip slightly obscured his view of it. Un's plain and functional design was an unrelentingly harsh contrast to the opulence of the room, stuffed with toys that even a prince would look upon with envy.

Griselda had brought him here, the day of the...

The day...

She had brought him here.

He'd lain here quietly crying, sobbing as she tried to soothe him with gentle words and soft tones. He'd said nothing that day or any day since. His words stilled as he lay in this gilded room, speech stolen from him by the memory of that day.

She'd visited him most days, often more than once a day, each time bringing new toys that sat untouched upon the never-dusty shelves or unrequested promises. Promises that he could have anything his heart desired if he'd only speak. Anything he wanted would be his if only a single word escaped his lips.

He'd said nothing, though. There was only one thing he wanted. Griselda might be a powerful monster, but Obit knew even she wouldn't be able to bring back the dead.

After the bribery had come the begging. Griselda had been on her knees next to the bed begging, pleading with him to speak, to say anything.

That, too, had failed, though Obit felt wracked with guilt at his silence and at his distrust of Griselda. She was a monster, yes, but if she was truly as evil as he'd assumed, would she be so determined to help him? Would an evil monster really get on its knees to beg a powerless child such as himself to speak?

Once that, too, had failed, she'd simply come into his room almost every day and sat on the edge of the bed. She would gently stroke his hair and talk. She'd talked about many things. She talked about her day, about the weather, but most of all, she talked about Refenial. About how Old Mother Hecate, or as she called her 'Hildegard', had lied to Refenial. About how Refenial was travelling through dangerous places, how in his desperation, he'd even been forced to work with a thing called a ghoul, A treacherous monster-like creature that pretended to be human. These ghouls dwelled in towns and cities, using lies and deceit to prey on the flesh of humans.

She told him, Refenial had been deceived and lied to by the Old Mother, who was manipulating him into staying away from Griselda and Obit. Refenial was now on his way to a magic school where he would learn magic that would turn him into a powerful being that the Old Mother wanted to use in her war against Griselda.

Obit desperately wanted to see his friend again. Refenial had lied to him about being a noble, but only because he was tricked by Hecate, just as he was being tricked now.

Obit knew he was, in truth, powerless. He'd not been able to save his family. He'd had to rely on Old Mother Hecate, who had let them all die. What could he do? He was no squire, no hero. He was a small child in a world where monsters walked freely, and witches could erase whole villages' worth of life in a single moment of terrible blinding light.

He looked at the sword again, at Un. The way Hecate and Griselda spoke of it. It was like something out of one of the stories his father used to tell. A magical sword fit for some mythical king or grand hero to wield. A sword that could slay even the most terrible horrors that lurked in the dark in a single moment of righteous judgement.

It didn't look like a hero's sword. There were no gems inlaid in its hilt, and its dull copper surface didn't gleam and glisten with a silver light. There wasn't a single embellishment or sign of artistry along its entire functional surface. It was as if the sword's first victim had been the sense of wonder and beauty with which such mythical swords were described.

How could something so simple, so mundane, be something people spoke about with so much reverence?

He looked around the room again, the expansive oil paintings of children playing in sunny fields, the perfectly crafted artistry of the ceiling, every inch of it formed and carved with such skill that it was difficult to believe human hands had made it. Perhaps they hadn't.

The toys, too, every one of them amazing and wonderous, regiments of hundreds of toy soldiers with carefully crafted joints that could move, wooden swords with real gems set in their hilts. A dollhouse-like castle that was larger than some of the sheds had been back in the village.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

For all its brilliance, it felt empty, a hollow gift from Griselda.

He remembered the sword cutting through the monster as easily as it had cut through the air.

A thought entered his mind. It felt dangerous, heretical, yet liberating. Like he was standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff.

Perhaps, Un really was a sword of legend fit only for a hero. Perhaps heroes didn't come in gleaming armour riding white chargers since it had chosen him. Perhaps heroes were humans who failed yet pushed on to new, greater heights. Perhaps they could be anyone, even a small boy, who had failed his family and let them die. Perhaps heroes were anyone who fought against the darkness of the world with everything they had. Anyone with the strength to wield a blade, even if it didn't gleam in the light.

The world was full of darkness, death, and lies. Maybe it did need a hero, a hero like in those stories, not in appearance but in action. Maybe if that hero was needed, and it could be anyone, it could be an eight-year-old boy with a magic sword and an unbreakable belief in being a hero.

Obit, for the first time since his arrival, pulled himself upright and placed his bare feet on the plush carpeted floor, wriggling his toes slightly at the unfamiliar feeling of the soft material.

There was the sound of fluttering wings from one of the windows. He looked over at the open window stretched from floor to ceiling that hung ajar but saw only the night sky that lacked both stars and clouds. This had been the constant sight outside the window since his arrival.

He pulled himself up, his muscles feeling a little unsteady after being in bed for so long and walked slowly towards the desk, towards Un.

He stopped in front of the sword, looking down at its plain features and gently brushed his fingers across the top of it, feeling the gentle chill of metal under his fingers.

Slowly but decisively, he lifted the sword and held it. It felt heavy in his hand. Not just in physical weight but heavy in the weight of the knowledge of who he needed to become and knowledge of what he needed to overcome.

He looked down at the blade, silently swearing that no matter how much it cost him and how much work it took, he would become a hero.

This world was not the world of his stories, not a place for heroes, but it made no difference. If the world was unfit for heroes, then he would bend the world to his will until it was.

The world would bend and break before him.

[rank up!]

The words flashed across his vision in confirmation of his decision. This might have hardened his resolve if he had been more uncertain, but his certainty was so absolute as to make that impossible.

He turned, sword still in hand, walking towards the door of his room. He opened it and stepped out into the silent stillness of the corridor beyond.

[https://i.imgur.com/oMrGBK6.png]

It was decorated in the same overly rich style as the bedroom, but the pictures were different. The corridor stretched far away from him into the distance. Along its walls, at regular intervals, were fine oil paintings. All but a few were of crows. Each one showed a crow in a different scene. Some showed crows sitting over doors or by windows, some in forests or on mountains. Some even showed murders of crows blotting out the sky of battlefields or ruined cities.

The windows in the corridor stretched from floor to ceiling, like in the bedroom. He looked out of them. Outside he could see more of the building he was wandering in. A huge palace that seemed to stretch for miles. Other than the palace, there was nothing. An endless void of black, no stars hung in the sky, no clouds, no moon. There was no ground either, no grassy hills, no distant mountains or lapping waves, just the palace lit up as if in daylight by some indeterminate light source.

He began to wander through the palace's corridors. They were winding and difficult to tell apart in their perfect sameness. Only the pictures were different, each one unique. There was a feeling in the air of the place, a tension between the feeling of age the palace exuded combined with the feeling of unused newness the immaculate corridors provided.

He'd seen people here, though, he was sure. Servants who'd brought him food and emptied his chamber pot. Where were they now?

He thought about those servants, but the more he tried to remember names, faces, and what they'd said, the more the memories drifted apart like smoke on the wind. The servants had existed, he was sure of it, but their true nature remained elusive.

After a time, he began checking the rooms, but each one he found was a bedroom, cold, dark and unused.

He hurried on, unsettled by the strange palace.

As he turned a corner, he found a large stairwell, the first break in the pattern of corridors and bedrooms he'd found.

He stood at the top of the wide marble staircase, looking down the stairwell that broke off into a corridor on every floor. He slowly counted as he tried to work out how many floors down the stairwell went. After a moment of silence, he reached the number of twenty. Twenty floors of broad marble steps, steps so grand that he could only imagine kings and queens using them.

He walked down the stairs, floor after floor, until he reached the bottom of the stairs.

This floor was different. A huge entrance hall was laid out before him, row after row after row of suits of armour lined the walls and chandeliers the size of a small house hung in flocks from the ceiling.

He heard the sound of a door opening nearby and turned to see a small door in the nearest wall open, and Griselda stepped through.

She was dressed as he had first seen her, as she always was when he saw her, in her magical black dress that seemed to always twist and transform into a myriad of styles and designs, each one best suited the exact pose she happened to be in.

"Obit!" She said, a wide smile on her ruby-red lips.

She walked quickly but confidently towards him, following his gaze as he couldn't help but marvel at the sights of the palace.

"This is my home. It once belonged to a being much older and more powerful than I," she said in explanation. "Though I did do some redecorating."

He looked back at her, the weight of his long silence making talking feel more difficult now.

"I..." His voice felt strange after such a long time of being unused. He cleared his throat and tried again, "I, I want to get stronger. Stronger than anyone."

Griselda walked over to him and knelt gracefully down to his level, tenderly stroking his hair, "As you wish, little one, as you wish."

[https://i.imgur.com/3vZaHAB.png]