Caden was halfway through tightening the wraps on his forearms when someone knocked on the door.
It was a soft knock. Not urgent, not loud. Just… there.
He looked up from the foot of his bed, blinked once, then stood. His room was dimly lit—just the lantern flickering near the window—and the air had that faint, chalky smell of worn parchment and iron polish. He'd spent the last hour trying to calm his thoughts by focusing on little things: checking his grip tape, folding his uniform properly, brushing off the edge of his boots even though he knew they'd be scuffed again in a minute.
The knock came again. He opened the door.
Sand stood on the other side.
He looked the same as always—dark coat, silver hair tied loosely at the back, expression unreadable. But in his hands, he held something long and narrow, wrapped in deep navy velvet and tied at the top with a plain black cord.
It was a sword.
Caden didn't need to ask. The weight of it. The shape. The way Sand was holding it—it wasn't a training blade.
Sand gave a small nod. "It came just now. Delivered by carriage."
He paused, then added, "There were fifteen knights escorting it."
Caden's eyes widened a little, and the realization hit fast.
Arthur.
Only one man would send something like this in that kind of fashion. Not for display. Not for status. Just… to make sure it reached safely.
Caden took a step back to let Sand in. The room wasn't large—just a student dorm, really—but it was clean. Plain wood floor, a desk by the window, a chair, and a bed that never quite stopped creaking when you moved too much. The breeze from the open window tugged faintly at the edges of the curtain.
Sand stepped inside and gently set the wrapped sword on the desk.
"There was a letter too," he said, fishing into his coat pocket and pulling out a folded envelope, wax-sealed and pressed with a faint silver insignia.
Caden took it with both hands.
He didn't say anything. Just walked toward the window, the letter cold against his fingers. Outside, the pine trees swayed with the wind. The moon wasn't full yet, but close—and the forest beneath it looked like a field of shadows shifting softly in their sleep.
He opened the letter.
Arthur's handwriting was neat. Slanted, deliberate, like everything else he did.
Caden,
I hope you've been well. I don't know when I'll next see you—my duties as Patriarch are keeping me farther from Nightsreach than I'd like.
Still, I heard about the upcoming duel. And I figured… it's time you had the sword.
It was always meant to be yours.
Caden read the words once, then again—slower this time. He didn't know what he was expecting. Maybe more. Maybe less. But somehow, it was exactly like Arthur to keep it short, and still say too much.
He set the letter aside and walked back to the desk.
The velvet was soft under his hands as he untied the cord and peeled it back. The cloth folded away smoothly, like it had been waiting.
And there it was.
A striking blue blade, sleek and precise, glowing faintly under the lantern light. The color wasn't flat—it shimmered ever so slightly, like the surface of still water catching wind. The hilt was polished steel, wrapped in dark leather, and the guard was enchanting, forged in the shape of spread wings and a gem embedded in between them.
It was made of Vyracite ore. It was the same sword that Arthur promised Caden on the day they went to see the Sky whale.
Rare. Expensive. A legacy. But more than that—alive, in its own way.
Caden remembered the words Arthur once told him, weeks ago by the fire:
"The colour of the blade is naturally blue but it will change depending on magical power of the wielder. You will be the third person to wield it."
He ran a hand over the flat of the blade. It was cold to the touch.
But not unkind.
Caden's fingers rested lightly on the flat of the blade. It felt cold—sharper than steel, but in a way that wasn't just about temperature. Like touching something old. Ancient. Waiting.
He wrapped his hand around the hilt and slowly raised it.
And then—
Light.
A flash—sudden and blinding. Not like fire or flame. Brighter. Cleaner. It burst from the sword like it had been holding its breath this whole time and had finally exhaled. The room lit up white, harsh and absolute, swallowing every shadow in an instant.
Caden flinched. He almost dropped it.
But he didn't.
The blade in his hand began to shift.
Not shake. Not crack. Just… change. It shrank—not awkwardly, but naturally—like it had always been meant to match his build, his weight, his reach. The velvet cloth fluttered off the desk, caught in the sudden gust that wasn't wind. Then the light began to fade, slowly, peeling itself off the edges of the sword like a dying star.
And there it was.
Midnight black.
The blade was sleek now, no longer blue. Its surface didn't shine, it drank the light instead. The handguard—open wings, still curved—looked sharper, more defined. Between them, where a faint blue gem had once been, there was now a deep, almost bottomless black stone. Like obsidian had swallowed the sky.
Caden stared at it, his breath caught in his chest.
He turned to Sand.
And stopped.
Sand was staring at the sword, frozen. For once, completely still—not in his usual calm way, but different. His eyes were wide. Jaw clenched. His hands, normally tucked behind his back, now hung slightly apart at his sides, fingers tense.
Caden had never seen that expression before. Not on Sand. Not on anyone.
He wasn't sure what it was.
Was it awe?
Or was it fear?