The False Star
After a century of wandering and sealed away in seclusion, I came home to the Ashveil Order.
The one who received me was the youngest apprentice of the current generation.
Taking me for a fresh recruit, he put me through a so-called pre-training inspection and helped himself to my travel pack.
"You're carrying this many rare reagents and relics? For someone just starting out, that's nothing but a burden. I'll go to the trouble of taking some off your hands."
"Why do you have so many elixirs and warding sigils? Did you rob someone? That's dangerous. I'll keep them safe for you, so no one comes hunting you for them."
Then he laid a hand on my soul-bound blade and said, "This sword carries far too much killing edge. It clashes with your gift and will tear at your soul if you wield it. Lucky for you, it suits mine perfectly. I'll take care of it for you."
I'd had enough.
I backhanded him across the face.
Did he have any idea that the Ashveil in Ashveil Order came from me—Rowan Ashveil?