THE CURSE OF THE FIFTH MATE
The sword's song thrummed in her bones, a melody of grief, rage, and hope.
A promise.
She knew, instinctively, that it was no ordinary weapon.
Forged with blood and soulfire, it could cut through the veil between realms.
It could wound Nyros in ways no ordinary blade could.
It was a piece of Zevi.
A piece of herself.
And it would not fail her.
"I'll name it later," she said, her voice raw but sure.
"For now... it knows its purpose."
She sheathed the blade across her back, feeling its pulse steady against her spine.
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