The blade was almost as long as Aren was tall, made from metal darker than iron but polished so smoothly that torchlight seemed to disappear inside it.
Its crossguard was gold.
Blue gemstones sat at the pommel and both ends of the guard.
The sword had been buried point-first into the black marble for as long as the kingdom possessed written history.
Kings were crowned beside it.
No king had ever moved it.
Royal tradition claimed it was ceremonial.
Children told another story.
The sword was not buried.
It was waiting.
Aren had always avoided it.
Not from fear.
From the strange feeling he got whenever he walked near the platform.
A pressure behind his eyes.
A whisper too low to understand.
Today the whisper became a voice.
Aren.
He turned.
The crowd around the platform continued cheering as King Aldric appeared at the top of the palace steps.
The king wore white armor beneath a blue cloak.
His golden crown carried a blue stone identical to the gemstone in the ancient sword.
Beside him stood Queen Maris.
On the other side was Prince Corvin, thirteen years old, pale-haired and already dressed like a commander though he had never fought a battle.
Behind them stood the royal court.
Nobles.
Generals.
Priests.
And the kingdom’s oldest historian, Master Oren, who leaned heavily on a black cane and looked as if the wind might carry him away.
Aren barely saw any of them.
Aren.
The voice again.
Not from the crowd.
From the sword.
His heart began pounding.
The guard shoved his shoulder.
“I told you to move.”
Aren stumbled.
Another tremor passed through the square.
This one stronger.
Several cups rattled on a vendor’s table.
People looked around.
The musicians kept playing.
Aren stared at the sword.
He knew the voice now.
Not because he recognized it.
Because somehow it recognized him.
Come closer.
Aren stepped forward.
The guard caught him.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Aren twisted free.
“To the sword.”
The guard laughed.
“That’s enough.”
He reached again.
Aren ducked.
He slipped between two festival tables and ran directly toward the ancient platform.
The guard swore behind him.
People shouted as Aren pushed past.
“Hey!”
“Watch it!”
“Street rat!”
Aren heard none of them.
The black marble seemed to pull him forward.
Master Oren, standing near the royal dais, saw the boy coming.
His eyes widened.
Not anger.
Recognition.
He dropped the book he had been holding.
Aren reached the platform.
Two more guards moved to intercept him.
“Stop!”
Aren stopped only because the sword was directly in front of him.
For the first time he saw himself reflected faintly in the black blade.
A dirty child.
Oversized coat.
One bad boot.
A face no court painter would ever bother remembering.
Then the reflection changed.
For less than a heartbeat, Aren saw another boy.
Same eyes.
Same mouth.
But dressed in silver armor.
A golden symbol burning across his palm.
The image vanished.
A guard grabbed Aren from behind and threw him away from the sword.
Aren hit the marble on one shoulder.
Pain shot down his arm.