His bare feet were on the stone. The wind moved his hair, though it did not touch him with its cold. He looked down at the abyss, then at the young man floating beside him.
Clothes formed on Raven's body.
Not the casual garments of the village. Armor. Dark, segmented plates that looked like dragon scales, overlapping across his chest and shoulders in a seamless weave of obsidian and crimson.
A cloak of deep red that snapped in the mountain wind, the fabric heavy and rich. Boots that gripped the stone with claws. Gauntlets that ended in sharp, elegant points. And in his hand — materializing from the air with the sound of a drawn blade and a flash of silver — a sword.
The Sword of the Hero.
