The next day, with little sleep and more than a little achiness from getting thrown around by an old lady, I gather the supplies for the little dagger.

The men were both compliant with the newly implemented forms and... not. The farmers were perfectly fine, as this day was very similar to what I had been training them previously.

This change was for the soldiers. They half-heartedly worked through the stretches, a few pulled muscles because they didn't follow instructions, and the forms were a disaster. Two men came away with bruised tailbones when they collided with each other... doing forms with absolutely no contact.

Even David's smile had dimmed, Jace and Tim flanking him again. Jace had another food stick he was stuffing his mouth with. Tim mostly ignored him and his sticks, watching the men with something approaching a scowl. An odd sight when I rarely see him with much expression at all.

So now, I get a to uncover this blade and hopefully get my mind off the disaster masquerading as training, and my family still in the hands of my enemy. That last thought... it almost brings me to my knees. I lean against the dark wooden wall in my room at the inn, struggling for breath.

I've been able to keep my mind from the weakness plaguing my bones and making my knees shake with extra exertion... I've been too busy to think on what could and likely is happening to my family.

This was purposeful. There is little I can do for them in my current state and with the things at my disposal. I could hire mercenaries, but I have had... experiences in the past with those whose loyalties can be bought. Wolves and sell swords don't get along. David has made it clear he needs everyone here. A side trip would not benefit his city, and there is no guarantee of return.

I turn my eyes to the innocuous blade laying upon the tiny table beside the bed. It's a mystery exactly what the blade represents. Morgana has been tight-lipped about the entire ordeal, answering my questions with an "oh, you'll see," or even just plain ignoring me as she cackled, bustling around my room and making it her home, per usual.

I've gathered the needed materials from the warehouses, farmers, and metalsmiths.

It's time to uncover the blade.

A metal tub sits right next to the window, filled with vinegar. I'm thankful the thing is only the size of my hand, or this would be much harder.

I sneeze at the pungent scent of vinegar tickling my nose.

I have already gently brushed as much of the dirt and flaky rust off as the blade allowed.

I bathe the blade in oil, then take a good scrub brush to it. That takes off much of the rust, revealing a gleaming black blade surprisingly intact. I'm shocked and delighted to see no pock-marks from rust, but the edge has some tiny nicks I'll need to sharpen out.

Next, I take the vinegar produced at an apple mill not too far from the outskirts of town. I asked David who around town had what I needed, and he was happy to comply. But I left him scratching his head when I didn't tell him why I needed such things.

After the oil bath, I submerge the blade in the metal tub that's about the size of my arm.

Apple Cider Vinegar is expensive in these parts; perhaps because it's not made in vast quantities like in the bigger cities. I had to sell another pint of Silo.

I scrub the blade a bit more, thrilled with the results. There are some white swirls in the blade's length that were previously hidden by the red rust and dirt.

I whistle.

If this is what I think, it is worth more than the entire building I'm currently sleeping in.

I'll have to leave the blade overnight, so I rinse my hands in the pail of water I brought up for just that purpose, then get ready for sleep.

~~~

Roland, help us!

Hurry. I don't know how much longer the boys can hold.

We need you.

I see as if I am a ghost inhabiting the upper planks of... a noble's room. The chandelier twinkles above, and below a man with a J-shaped scar swirls amber liquid in a glass. Two wolves lounge at his feet.

The man leans forward on his wooden throne, his purple cape draped over the arm of his chair.

"Bring the boy here."

A jingoist grasps a boy by his hair, making the pup cry out.

The sound makes my heart ache in my chest, as if a fist has it within a tight grasp.

Barry! I try to cry the name aloud, but I feel stuck, my mouth paralyzed and my tongue useless. All I can do is watch, and it breaks something in me.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

They drag him before the commander, forcing him to his knees even as he struggles with men two and three times his size. The boy has a split lip, but he bares his teeth at the commander, his eyes flashing.

Even as my heart beats painfully, it soars. The little man has the bravery of an Alpha, and I couldn't be more proud.

Commander Vex leans back, tapping a manicured finger against the chair arm, hard hazel eyes watching the boy with a twisted smile.

"You, boy, have bravery in that small frame of yours. I have much use for those like you. The benefits would be... plentiful." He gestures, and Ma and Jed are brought out a side door, their hands tied.

Jed's eyes on the floor and his shoulders are slumped. My heart goes out to the quiet boy with a soft heart.

Ma's red hair, the glory and pride of her village, has been cut, nearly sheared to her scalp. But otherwise, she appears unharmed, which is a balm to my soul.

"You see, boy, your mother could be treated with respect, given choice foods and servants. Any and all desires met and fulfilled. Your brother would be given a room here in the castle and choice food and maidens. You would be given training to be an honored knight of The Empire. All you must do is follow me. Give me your word and your oath,” the commander says, reaching a hand out to the now silent Barry.

Barry's eyes say he's thinking, and a part of me knows what's coming, even if I wish it to be different. Pa raised the boys with too much honor. And Barry is... stubborn.

"I hope a dragon sits on you, you rotten snake." The lisp takes some of the bite from his words, yet... that kid is going to be the death of me, but he is no more a boy in my mind. He's a man. A man I am going to kill for egging on the rotten commander when I finally get him back, but a man, nonetheless.

The wolves at the commander's feet growl. A sharp crack echoes in the room as the commander backfists my little brother, knocking him to the ground.

~~~

"NO!" I yell, waking drenched in sweat. My heart is pounding a loud rhythm within my ears and my chest feels tight.

I pull at my black hair, trying to scrub away the nightmare.

Was that real? I think.

It was a dream. Dreams are echoes of things present and things past.

That was.... deeply philosophical and no help whatsoever.

Now you know how I feel when you get all brainy on me.

Brainy? I ask, almost amused, despite the lingering dread of the dream that I hope wasn't real.

Brainy. You think too much. Acting is much better.

Acting before you think is folly.

Not acting at all is idiotic.

I rise and splash water on my face. I'm smelling quite rancid, a worse fact due to my... sensitive nose. A bathhouse will be priority, after the dagger is unveiled.

I draw the blade from the vinegar and scrub at the last few spots of stubborn red rust. If my scrubbing is a bit... zealous, who could blame me after a nightmare like that?

When it's done, I sit back, running a hand through my hair.

That is no ordinary blade. I should've guessed, and perhaps subconsciously I did... but like I said, that is no ordinary blade.

What I thought were swirls last night? They are words. Made and folded into the blade itself by an expert hand.

The amount of skill and time it would take to fold such precise and, quite frankly, exquisite penmanship into the blade is something beyond what I thought possible.

Only a very talented dwarf or perhaps a skilled elf could have done this, but even then... yeah, my limited knowledge of metalsmithing makes me think this blade is something not possible with the tools and methods available today. Which means it's older than old.

It's a Lorascus blade, named after the last Dwarven hold in the lost mountain nation of Kiln; yet, it's unlike what I would usually classify as such a patterned steel.

Normally, a Lorascus blade will have even folds where the smith pounded and folded the metals together into evenly spaced swirls and patterns. This is done in a fifty-fifty ratio of silvery white high-nickel steel folded with a darker high-carbon steel to give the blade a strength unmatched by its pure high-nickel cousin.

The high-carbon steel alone will not hold an edge, nor can it be molded after it is cast, making a blade from it practically useless. Whereas most blades today are made from high-nickel steel or wrought iron that sharpens easily, the blades have a breaking point that is not ideal.

Mixing the metals into one? That is a unique and, frankly, expensive venture the dwarves mutter and curse over. I've heard it's a hard process, and only Kings are rich enough to afford it.

Hence its nickname: The King's Blade.

And the technique used on this one have been lost to the ages. There have been such swords found before, swords and even metal urns with letters and words folded into the metal instead of pressed. It is something rare and priceless.

And I'm holding one in my hand.

I open my hand on reflex and nearly stab myself juggling it. Some big bad assassin I am. I nearly stabbed myself with a blade older than The Empire.

My lips tip into a smirk as I snort a laugh.

I might not feel worthy of holding it, but that doesn't mean my reverence should make the blade end up on the floor.

I set the blade on my tiny nightstand.

There I study the blade instead of just wondering about its history.

Around the edges, the blade is the usual swirls and circular pattern I'm used to seeing in a King's Blade. But that ends abruptly about half a finger's width into the blade itself. There the center is pure black carbon.

In the center of the darkness are pure white words made with a steel so light I'm not sure I've ever seen its like.

The words make a sharp contrast between the black and the white. The letters themselves are so small that I'll need a magnifying glass to make them out, but the large swirls at certain intervals remind me of a noble lady's fancy penmanship.

The crossguard is a simple black metal curling slightly towards the handle at its edges. It's inset with a tiny silver gem on both sides in the center of the guard. The handle is made of the same smooth black steel, whatever leather once made its home there long dissolved into dust. The pommel is a simple teardrop.

"Found the blade beneath the rust, eh, deary?" Morgana cackles as she lets herself into the room as I'm still staring at the blade.

"It's..." I don't have words.

"Pick it up, it ain't gonna bite ya,” she says, chortling.

I look over at her, then slowly pick the blade up into my hand. It fits there as if were designed for me. It fits better than some of the custom made blades I had designed when I was an assassin with unlimited budget.

"Much better. Found ya some black-dyed manta-ray leather for the handle. Won't get slippery when wet, if ya get my meaning." She winks, even as I have to consciously close my mouth.

Ray leather is the best of the best, but even I had trouble affording it when I was the best of the best.

I highly doubt she just found it somewhere.

I accept the bundle with a nod of thanks, drink the tea she gives me without fuss, tuck the blade into a hidden leather holster, then back out the door without another word.

It's only then that I realize... I drank the tea.