The echoes of Dayat's footsteps against the obsidian floor sounded like a steady, deliberate heartbeat within the oppressive silence of the castle. The dinner had long since concluded, leaving behind the lingering savory taste of rabbit meat and the bitter, metallic tang of rejection on Lunethra's tongue. Dayat walked with a slow, measured gait, his palm still feeling the ghost of Dola's warmth from when she had gripped his hand as they rose from the dining table.
Dayat came to a halt in front of a mechanical storage compartment integrated seamlessly into the corridor wall. With a single touch, the metal panel slid back without a sound, revealing a longsword wrapped in coarse, blood-stained linen.
Silver Thorn.
