The Blade Itself Book Review Novels & Stories

"You didn't just love me, Jinyan. You used me to stay alive. Every time we touched, every time I felt that rush of connection... I wasn't just giving you my heart. I was giving you my life." He let out a jagged, wet breath. "I wanted to tell you... I tried to find another way. But the Father... he designed me to need you. I am Blade, Panni. And a blade has no light of its own. It only reflects what is poured into it." I felt the resonance in my blood begin to scream. It was a physical pressure behind my eyes, a heat in my palms that felt like molten lead. I was the Battery. My very existence was a power source, a reservoir of light that the Firm had spent fifteen years perfecting.

“I was able to read the book given to me by the guardian of the sprites.” I paused taking in everyones expression before I continued, making sure not to add unnecessary details because I knew if they were aware of what I really had to do then they would do everything in their power to stop me and hence Colby succeeding in his plot to take over and fill the world with evil and blood. “What did it say Anna?” Draven countered quickly, his expression still strained. I squeezed his hand and then continued. “According to the book I need a very specific blade and I will need a group of men, some of the best we have to accompany me.”

I was going to murder myself. My panic disappeared the moment I felt the sharp edge of the blade digging into my lower back. Apparently, somewhere along the line, it had slipped from my little satchel and ended up in between my clothes. I let out a breath I had no idea I was holding, while I cradled the blade in my arms. It glowed faintly, and for the first time, I really saw what it looked like. The blade was a portable size, but what called to me was the fault blue light that glowed around the edges, and almost in the runes carved into it. The pulsating light felt mesmerizing for a moment, but a thought caught through my mind and I stilled.

We’re not the first house he’s tried to wire; we’re just the one that said no out loud. I closed the book and tucked it under my arm, feeling the weight of paper the way some people feel the weight of knives. When I stepped back into the cold, the wind made my eyes water. I let it look like weather. It was easier than saying what I wanted—to Victor, to myself, to the story that keeps asking if I can be both blade and balm.

It was almost too easy. Now, as I stood in the safety of my apartment, staring at the blade, I felt a strange mix of triumph and dread. The blade was beautiful, its silver edge gleaming even in the dim light. But there was something else about it, something darker. It radiated a kind of energy that made the air around it feel heavy, oppressive. I traced my fingers along its hilt, the cool metal sending a shiver down my spine. This was it. This was what Kade had been searching for all these years.

The blade itself was crafted from what looked like obsidian, a material that seemed to absorb the light around it. As I stared at the weapon, I couldn't help but marvel at its artistry. The blade was adorned with symbols that I didn't recognize, a language of magic that spoke to something primal deep within me. The hilt, too, was a thing of wonder, decorated with delicate carvings of wolves that snarled and bared their teeth with a savage grace.

The Hollow Blade waited for her there. It was no weapon forged by men, nor a simple vision birthed from fear. It was something etched into the marrow of her existence. A spectral blade with jagged, shifting edges, its body wreathed in whispers that cut deeper than steel. The voice it carried wasn’t one voice, it was many, layered, distorted, yet unified in cruelty. "You think you can wear the crown of Luna? You think your blood is strength, hybrid?" the Blade hissed, circling her in the void-space.

She thought of her mother, Queen Nox, who'd once said, "A blade too soon drawn is a blade forever dulled. As though it had winked at her to catch her attention, her gaze shifted - caught on a blade resting apart from the others. It gleamed black as midnight, so dark the light seemed swallowed by it. Its hilt was wrought with curling filigree of silver, set with stones of onyx. Its guard swept outward like wings — not soft, feathery wings, but razor-edged, proud, terrible. It was beautiful. It was dreadful. It was hers.

She filled them all with mortal dread as she entered her Cyclone Stance and expertly spun around in the middle of them. Her blades followed her as she went, and cut into the terrorists with exacting precision. The Ra’ventrii blade’s razor-thin edges sliced cleanly through their heavy armor and bit deep into the flesh and bone far below. Those around her were almost instantly sliced to ribbons as gouts of blood poured out of their wounds. A few of them made choking sounds as their lives exited their bodies, which began to slowly fall to the ground. It was as though they were gradually realizing just how dead they were.

I told them about the incident with the blade. As I pulled the blade to show them, my breath hitched. A sickening realization settled over me—the blade had begun to decay, its once-impenetrable metal now chipped where our blood had mingled. The sharp edge had dulled, the intricate engravings that once pulsed with power were now barely visible beneath the damaged metal. It was as if the weapon itself had been tainted, consumed by the impossibility of what had touched it.