I'd always dreamed of being a hero. A caped paragon, wielding magic and swordplay, woven together with immaculate precision, to be sharply brought to bear upon the evils of the world. Unfortunately, such powers don't exist, and the era of swordplay is gone, so I could never possibly be one. The most I can do is dream, wistfully.

And so it is, that I spend most of my afternoons at my local library, scouring through penned world after world, getting lost in their stories, each and every one. Really, truly enjoying myself - after all, in one's own imagination, you can be a hero in every world!

But someone was clearly listening to my childhood wishes, as the monkey's paw curled a hairy, gnarled finger. As I was putting my latest finished read, a novel about a heroic, silver-haired princess, back on the shelf, something struck my head - a book fallen from the... tilting shelf.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

"Well, shi-"

A resounding crash deafened the library, as the falling shelf crushed my brittle, non-heroic bones flat. In my last moment of lucidity, I swear I heard a girl's laughter.

Elsewhere, in a time and place far removed from Earth, the strings of magic were teased loose by an unseen hand, pulled, sinking deep into the land, piercing through to an ancient sepulcher, a buried city, lost to time. Woven into a spiral of new life, a crumbling sword found its decay forestalled, chosen as a suitable vessel. Fresh veins of magic grew across the ruined demense, revitalizing long-drained wellsprings, soon to feed the shattered blade.

Shrieking winds scatter ancient dust, magic vitrifies into crystal shards, and, fueled by a dying wish a world apart, the sword awakens.