This memory goes here. It’s an easy piece to place.

  This is when we first met. I remember the lilies had started to blossom outside of your parents house—they were so proud of their growth. Your father was awful at keeping up with simple gardening tasks, but your mother loved how excited he got when something managed to stick around.

  The roses he attempted before were carcasses set in their ruins.

  I feel their despair.

  I remember the pride in being the first one since your mom in the family to have a green thumb. I think that was the moment she saw me as a son. The way she smiled made me feel so confident about life.

  Now, like those lilies, I too have been left to rot.

  Hauthe 19th, 758

  Six Days Later

  The blade is almost finished.

  The space is comfortably warm, and the air is heavy with the unmistakable scent of heated metal. It's an environment we've both grown accustomed to over the years, and it never fails to envelop us.

  My father stands by the anvil, a master of his craft, holding the hilt of the sword steady while I meticulously forge the blade. The forge's flames dance and sway, casting their flickering shadows on the workshop's walls with each clang. The room is bathed in the warm, orange glow.

  What sets this blade apart is not its functionality but the exquisite artistry that adorns its surface. Intricate patterns, etched with precision and care, swirl and wind their way across the metal. The leather itself has been lovingly treated, making it a comfortable yet secure grip for the one who will wield the sword.

  "The blade that bites the dark,” my father says, stepping back and regarding the sword with a sense of accomplishment. "The Sword of the End. Take a look at our effort, Mal. It is a thing of beauty.”

  I stand firm and stare at the blade, seeing the glow shine over the face of the blade brings to mind questions of the metal itself. I remember Vego speaking of a certain type of metal my father borrowed from the Empire—that must be what causes this type of sheen. I’ve tried asking my father what type this sword is made of—what made it so special compared to our usual brand, but he’s been absolutely silent on that front. I wasn’t even allowed to be in the shop when he started the forging process on the first day.

  It unsettles me to no end how secretive my father is on certain matters—increasingly so by the day, but I’m glad he let me in on the job once the initial smelting process was completed.

  My father sits back in a chair propped up against the wall, letting loose a tightly held breath, and I can see the sweat dripping off his face—the exhaustion is evident. The room itself is filled with the residue of our labor—the echoes of our work linger, much like the faint scent of burning coal.

  "It's done...it's actually done," I whisper.

  My father's gaze remains unwavering, his eyes locked onto the blade. "You sound like you've never finished a blade before, boy."

  I take a deep breath, my eyes still fixed on the sword. "Never one to this level. You refuse to tell me what it's made of, so it’s obvious the allure exists."

  My father breaks the silence after a moment, his voice filled with gravitas. "It's one of the last remaining things I've kept from the Empire, or at least, thought I was able to. Throughout history it's had many names, but it's a special type of metal that has so infrequently been seen—except by the most legendary of smiths. Current stories call it Godmetal.”

  “Godmetal? Do you mean the gods themselves…?”

  “Historians assume the gods forged their own weapons from it, yes. Like the arrowheads of Levios' sacred arrows, or Velos' lance—the metal itself has many fantastic properties us smiths cannot unlock. To even begin to describe it would be an affront to the gods themselves, but you can be sure that blade isn’t going to break within your lifetime."

  "How did you manage to come across this...Godmetal?"

  My father's silence lingers, and his gaze drops. It's clear he doesn’t intend on sharing this particular piece of the puzzle with me.

  "Did you steal it?" I press further, my mind racing to consider the possibilities.

  "I think you should know I haven't," my father responds, his voice steady.

  "Why do you have it, then?" I ask.

  "I understand that I haven't told you everything you desire to know," my father acknowledges. "There are simply a great many things that you are not yet ready to hear."

  "It's not fair that you get to decide that," I retort, my voice laced with frustration.

  My father's response is measured and composed. “It is how it must be. I don’t act without good justification.”

  "What kind of power lies within the sword? You've mentioned that it's not like any other metal. What abilities does it hold?"

  "Its true abilities are shrouded in mystery," he finally answers. "Some believe it can mend itself after being damaged in battle, while others say it can absorb that which would attempt to break it. Think of Firebrand from my old stories. It was able to take in the properties of the dragons it had slain. But the truth is, Malachi, we don't know the extent of its powers. What I can tell you is that the sword's abilities might not be immediately apparent, and they could awaken when one needs them most."

  "So, it's a sword with untapped potential," I muse, my fingers tracing the intricate patterns etched onto the blade's surface. "Wouldn't the emperor be upset that he's not the first to wield it?"

  A faint hint of humor flickers across my father's face as he shakes his head. "Emperor Eugolius commissioned this sword solely for its Godmetal, not for pageantry. That sword holds powers beyond our comprehension, and it won't easily break, so that's not something you need to worry about. If you need to use it on your journey, you have my permission. It would even amuse me to know you had."

  "There are many things that concern me, but that sword breaking isn't high on the list." The mental image of Khody's wound, the blood flowing from it, is etched in my memory like a haunting etching. My hand trembles slightly as I grasp the sword's hilt.

  "It is not weakness to have fear, my child. I wish you to know that many men, even the bravest of warriors, cannot stand the sight of lifeblood in the air. It is the persistence through fear, the reclamation of one's self, that forges the steel in our spirits. It is the mark of a true warrior. You lack confidence in yourself, but I know you have a strong heart."

  With a deliberate motion, he rises, shattering the solemn atmosphere that had cocooned us in a world of its own. "Okay, grab the scabbard over there, and we'll lock this place up. I'll make you a final dinner here, then you can make your last preparations."

  We return to the family room, and I follow my father's lead in securing the door to the workshop. He strides towards the kitchen, his footsteps echoing through the otherwise quiet house.

  As I sit for my last meal at home, the realization settles in, sinking over me like a thick fog. I feel the weight of my father's gaze upon me throughout the dinner. Viewing myself from an almost detached perspective, a powerful urge to cry wells up within me. The source of these emotions remains elusive.

  “Keep your dishes aside. I will wash them later,” my father bids as I move to clean up after myself.

  “Okay…are you sure?”

  He nods. “Do not worry, my son. Gather your things. I fear you will have only two weeks to make it to the Empire given the length of our craft.”

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  He stands and walks closer to me. “You have a long journey ahead of you. You should first head toward Obskurd, but make your way north through Verdantia. They’re allies of ours, and would similarly not want the emperor to be upset in our direction. Stay at a good pace and you should reach the border of Verdantia and the Empire by week’s end. Heimto is the imperial capital, you should have more than enough time to get there and deliver the sword. Take some time in the Empire to rest afterward, but not too long. I don’t want anything happening if something happens afterward.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  My father is hesitant to answer, and I realize that is all I’m going to get.

  After dinner, the entire town will assemble to bid me farewell. The news of my father's commission by the Empire has spread like a wildfire through Khadein, carried by the wind. The atmosphere is heavy with a sense of unease.

  As my thoughts return to my father's talk of the Sword of the End and the necessity of defending myself, I can't help but dwell on the fact that the beginning of my journey will lead me through the ridge of the Abyss underneath Khadein.

  Khadein floats above an empty void that I’ve been told leads down forever. It’s a pool of water surrounding a vortex that neighbors the rocky terrain of Obskurd. The Abyss is commonly the setting of childhood stories where bad kids get sent if they misbehave.

  "I'm going to miss you," I begin, my voice cracking with emotion. "I...don't want to go, but I don't want you to go more. I hate that the Empire has put us in this position."

  My father stops, turns, and slowly approaches me. There's a softness in his gaze as he bundles me up into a warm embrace. In that moment, tears flow freely, and my grip on my father tightens.

  "I know, Malachi. This pleases me no less," my father says. "I damn myself for not being strong enough. I damn myself every day." Tears glisten in his eyes, and I realize they might be the first he has shed in years. The vulnerability of the moment breaks the walls between us, and I can see the love and concern in his gaze.

  “It’s not your fault,”

  "I never wished for you to be put in harm's way," he continues, his voice wavering slightly. "That's why I left the Empire. But I see now that you have grown so finely. I know the reason you spoke up, and I am proud of you for it. But my son, I cannot lie. I fear for your safety. I fear there is much about this journey that is bigger than even Vego believes. You must promise me you will grow. I know you will face challenges, and I wish I could protect you from them, but I realize that would only hamper you in the long run. Promise me you will face this adversity and you will come back stronger because of it."

  I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my coat, nodding. "I promise, father. I'll come back, and I want to hear your stories when I do. I want to know what pain you've kept locked away."

  I can't help but be aware of the sense of urgency hanging in the air. The family room is bathed in the soft, warm light of the late afternoon sun.

  My father finishes checking the straps on my bag, securing everything in place. There's a silent understanding, a shared acknowledgment of the challenges that lie ahead.

  “Malachi," he begins, his voice soft but firm, "I want you to take this." He presents me with a small pouch containing a considerable amount of coins—our family's savings that have been diligently collected over the years.

  I'm taken aback by his offer. "Father, I can't take our family's savings. You need this to sustain our home."

  He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "My son, you are the most important thing to me. Our home can be rebuilt, but you cannot be replaced. I would rather have you return safely than worry about the house. Besides, I have some contacts you’ve so diligently forged positive relationships with who might be able to help if we run into trouble."

  All those years of helping out Roderick and the butcher’s coming to a head, huh? I guess it does pay to have good friends in the business.

  "Thank you, Father," I whisper.

  He pulls me into a heartfelt embrace, and we stand there for a moment, holding onto each other. When we finally break apart, his eyes glisten with unshed tears.

  "Remember, Malachi, you carry the hopes and dreams of our family and our city," he says with a sense of solemnity. "You are not alone on this journey. Your mother watches over you from above, and I will be with you in spirit every step of the way."

  I nod, my throat tight. I can't find the words to express the gratitude and love I feel for my father. We share one last look, before I gather my things and head toward the door, where the townspeople wait to see me off.

  As the setting sun casts a fading golden hue over the town, I find myself surrounded by many familiar faces. The townspeople gather to see me off on this perilous journey to Obskurd. Beneath the veneer of their expressions, I know there's an underlying fear of what lies ahead, but they choose to wear the mask of pride, which bolsters my confidence.

  Among the crowd, two faces were absent—Khody and Ezra. Khody's decision not to partake in the farewell event doesn't surprise me. The animosity of a scorned bully can be unpredictable, and his emotions might have kept him away.

  However, the absence of Ezra stirs a sense of sadness within me. I wish I had the chance to say goodbye to her, to express my feelings, and perhaps mend the hurt that lingers from our last encounter. But I understand the complexity of the situation and hope that she can find peace and continue her work in Khadein.

  As I walk along the streets of Khadein, I pass by familiar storefronts that now stand empty, their usual occupants having temporarily left their posts to gather and wish me farewell. The bakery, run by Mrs. Abernathy, whose warm smile and freshly baked bread always greeted me, is now dark and closed.

  Next door, the tailor's shop, even Johan’s work has paused for the gathering. Further down the street, the old bookshop, owned by Mr. and Mrs. Larkins, stands quiet. The musty yet comforting scent of old parchment and ink is missing, and the welcoming atmosphere they created is gone. With each empty storefront I pass, I'm reminded of the tight-knit community that has supported me throughout my life in Khadein. Each closed door is another step closer toward leaving it all behind. These are my people, and somehow, I feel a deeper connection with them than I have over the last nineteen years. I look up toward the sky and close my eyes.

  Levios, I call upon thee to honor your people, please accept my pleas of support.

  When I am ready I move forward, treading similar ground as I usually had when I’ve gone hunting, except when I reach the baker’s mount, I take a left and travel across the eastern street up until I see the Traveler’s Arch in the distance. It’s a tower of a monument that houses the path down to the surface.

  My journey is halted by a familiar voice that gives me pause.

  "And where do you think you’re going?”

  Khody, of course. There’s something about his stance that gives me concern, he’s standing taut as a strung bow.

  "What are you doing?”

  He smirks, and I see a glint of terror from his eye—instantly my suspicions are being played on. "Why, I couldn’t let you leave our funny little town without saying good-bye. What kind of friend do you take me for, a punto?”

  His insistence on the low speech—the kind of slang taken on by gangs who mainly reside in Aureleth’s slums always said a lot about Khody and the kinds of kids he hung around with, but seeing his figure outlined by the setting sun behind—I could have easily mistaken him for a low man himself. There is a sick confidence in his stride.

  "I’m not looking for any trouble…” I say, almost saying it out of obligation.

  "Trouble? Now why would I cause trouble?” He shifts his weight to one hip, his coat opens to reveal the butt of a gun. "I’m here as a friend, remember? Buddy?”

  He saunters over—closing the distance between us in a few steps. My hesitance allows this unchallenged as my eyes widen to the metal piece. "Now, as your fine friend, why don’t you hand me that sword you got there?”

  And so his aim is the sword. My hand moves to the hilt of the blade and the sword glows faintly.

  "Come on, you can’t honestly believe that you’ll make it out there? Out there in the big scary world with all the people out looking to sever your head from your neck.” Khody stretches out his hand. "I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime here. Give me the sword. Let me pawn it–do the hard work for you. Sure, we’ve had our spats in the past. Don’t think I forgot what you did to me before…” his finger drags across his arm. I can’t see the wound now due to his undershirt, but I don’t need to see it to imagine the trail of blood running across where I cut him. "...but I’m here despite that complication.”

  "I don’t trust you,” I say, taking a step back.

  "Well, that’s a shame. I would have let you return back to the humdrum of your boring ass life. Sure, you would have had shame and maybe made a few people scared for the Empire, but you’d have lived that down. You’re great at that. Unfortunately, now I gotta use this,” he pulls the gun into his hand and spins it once, letting it settle in my direction. "Been excited for this. Think of the humor, though. The boy with the sword from his dad and the gallant hero here to rescue it away with the gun of his most formidable rival.” He lifted the gun as his laughs coalesced into the sky.

  He lowers his head, his narrowed eyes fixed on me like predatory slits, and his mouth opens wide. In his grip, the gun hovers inches from my chest, casting a sinister shadow over my racing heart. My eyes are drawn to the unforgiving darkness within the barrel. I can't help but imagine the searing pain of a bullet ripping into my chest, tearing through my flesh, and rupturing my heart, causing it to spill its crimson contents in a gruesome display.

  The hammer of the gun retreats with a metallic click, his finger poised near the trigger, trembling with a sinister anticipation. He leans in close, his voice reduced to a terrifying whisper, sending a shiver down my spine. "Last chance," he utters, a grim ultimatum that hangs in the air like a storm cloud, the weight of his threat pressing upon me. In that tense moment.

  As my trembling fingers grip the hilt of the Sword of the End, I feel its cool touch. My eyes close and accept I am going to die here. I do not have the time I need to pull the sword out before he can fire, but at the root of it...I know I can’t bring myself to kill Khody either.

  It is then that the rip of the gunshot tears through the sky and I tense up waiting for it to end. But when I finally dare to open my eyes after the gunshot's deafening echo subsides, I'm met with an unexpected sight. Khody's retreating figure grows smaller and smaller in the distance, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. He has chosen a hasty escape, leaving me baffled by this sudden and inexplicable turn of events, my senses heightened and my heart still racing.

  As I look around, my eyes land on Ezra, a few strides away, her hand cradling a small gun. She moves swiftly, tucking her own firearm into a small bag hanging by her side.

  "I’m glad I could reach you in time before he could follow up,” she says, out of breath and her shoulders drop in relief. “Another second and he would have blown some holes in you.”

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