The blade was of an absolute nothing given lethal form —black as the deepest abyss, so dark it seemed to swallow the violet light around it. Along both edges ran a razor-thin line of glacial white-blue ice, sharper than any scalpel, sharper than any surgeon's tool ever forged.
The cutting edge looked almost translucent, like frozen starlight, so keen that it split the very air molecules as it formed; faint violet sparks danced along the edge where reality itself was being shaved away.
The cold that bled from it was worse than pain —it was absence. Wherever the tip hovered, skin promised to blister and freeze black in seconds, the flesh dying before the blade even touches.
The hilt was elegant and cruel: twisted black frost shaped perfectly to Phei's grip, veined with faint glacial blue, cold enough to burn bare skin on contact. Tiny black-ice barbs jutted from the pommel, ready to hook and tear if he ever chose to pull it free — or if he chose to twist them deeper.
