Child: "Can you tell me a different story tonight, father? Please?"
The man chuckled, his green eyes crinkling at the corners.
Father: "Sorry, son. Not tonight."
Child (groaning): "But you tell me the same one every Sunday! It's boring. I don't get it."
The man paused, his smile softening.
Father: "I know it's not your favorite. But one day, you'll understand. Stories like this..."
He glanced at the boy's sleepy green eyes, so much like his own. His voice grew quieter.
Father: "They teach more than meets the eye. Now, help your old man recall... How does it start again?"
The boy huffed but settled back into his pillow.
Child: "'Once upon a time, there was a great warrior...'"
He grinned mischievously.
Child: "'Who lost everything. The end!'"
The man shook his head, laughing.
Father: "If that's all you remember, maybe I'll have to tell it twice a week instead."
Child: "No, please! I'm just joking... Once upon a time, there was a great warrior, the greatest in the land, who had never once met defeat."
The man smiled and leaned back in his chair.
Father: "Ah, yes. I remember now...!"
The child rolls his eyes, but can't help to betray a slight smirk.
Father: "He had never known defeat -- until the day a mysterious knight arrived in his kingdom, seeking a duel. Confident as ever, the warrior accepted without hesitation."
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The boy yawned, his head sinking deeper into his pillow.
Father: "The duel began, and the two clashed with unimaginable ferocity. But the knight proved stronger. Faster. The great warrior -- who had never even been scratched in battle -- fell to his knees, defeated."
His son stirred, but the man continued, with voice steady and low.
Father: "The warrior could not bear the shame of it. How could he, the undefeated champion, be humiliated by an outsider? Fueled by his rage, he summoned the most skilled swordsmith and the most feared witch in the land. In secret, he promised them unimaginable wealth if they could create a weapon that would guarantee his victory. 'It must be the sharpest blade ever forged,' he demanded, 'and powerful enough to bring even the gods to their knees.'"
The child's breathing slowed, his eyelids fluttering shut, but the father pressed on.
Father: "Months passed, and at last, the swordsmith and the witch presented him with their creation -- a blade as black as midnight, its edge gleaming with a faint, green glow. The moment he held it, the warrior knew it was perfect. The sword was impossibly light, yet devastatingly strong. It could cleave through ancient oaks as though they were reeds. Even the air around it seemed to tremble."
The man's voice dropped lower, his words curling like smoke in the dimly lit room.
Father: "But the witch had foreseen her fate. She knew the warrior would never let her or the swordsmith live to reveal his secret. So, she cursed the blade. The warrior didn't notice, blinded as he was by his own ambition..."
The boy stirred once more, a small frown creasing his brow.
Father: "When the time came for his rematch, the warrior invited the knight to a grand feast -- his eighteenth birthday celebration. Before the gathered nobles and lords, the warrior unsheathed his cursed blade, its dark-green aura bathing the hall in an unholy light. The crowd gasped at its beauty. And when the duel began, the knight found himself outmatched at every turn. It was as if the warrior could see his thoughts before he moved."
The man paused, glancing at his son, whose breathing had grown slow and deep. Still, he continued, softer now.
Father: "The knight could do nothing but defend as the warrior mocked him, driving him back step by step. But the warrior soon tired of his games. With one final, brutal swing, he brought the blade down to deliver the killing blow."
The man stared out the window, his voice almost a whisper.
Father: "Yet before the blade could strike, the warrior's body faltered. His breath hitched. His chest tightened. The crowd watched in stunned silence as he collapsed, clutching his heart."
The man sat in the quiet for a moment before continuing.
Father: "The curse had taken hold. The witch had bound the sword to the warrior's lifeforce, ensuring that whenever he swung the sword with intent to kill... his own heart would falter."
The boy murmured in his sleep, shifting slightly. The man smiled faintly but kept speaking, his voice now tinged with sorrow.
Father: "The warrior's family, desperate to destroy the cursed weapon, tried everything. They cast it into the heart of a volcano, but the flames left it untouched. They crushed it beneath great boulders, but the stones shattered instead. No force in this world could harm it. So they wrapped it in chains, tied it to heavy stones, and sank it in the deepest lake they could find..."
He leaned over his son, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.
Father: "It is said the sword waits there still, in the blackness. Waiting for the next greedy soul to claim it, so it can take everything from them, too."
He stood, his shadow stretching long across the room as he walked toward the door. As he reached it, he turned back, looking at his sleeping son.
Father (whispering): "I pray you never have to discover what that's like, my son..."
With a final glance, he closed the door, leaving the boy to sleep beneath the full moon's light.