The Primordial Khunas’ skull.
Within the blink of an eye, I’ve already reasoned how it could be so small. The same mages who were able to relocate an entire section of the continent, no doubt had enough magic to shrink down the size of a Primordial skull.
Eyes widening with understanding, I twist the axe so that the blade is facing away from me as I search the opposite side. At first glance, I find nothing, just the pole for which the axe has been fastened to. But I run my fingers over it just as I did the skull, and I feel not only a rough indent that seems to be big enough for another axe head, but also the slightest tingle of residual magic.
Whenever a Crusader falls, his weapon is returned to the Shadow Crusade, with almost no exception. The only reason I have Tor’s shadowsteel dagger is because my uncle just so happens to be the Magistrate, and with the Blight encroaching on our home, he found an ounce of compassion in his heart for his brother’s family, and he sent us the dagger once Tor’s body had been retrieved.
That being said, to my knowledge, every other shadowsteel weapon is returned to the Crusade, so that it may aid the future generation of Crusaders in our multi-generation battle to end the Primordials.
Over time, I’m sure this battle-axe and the spear that killed the Primordial Khaymus have been passed through hundreds of Crusaders’ hands. This fight has lasted so long that I doubt most even know which weapons have accomplished what. It wasn’t until I’d read the books from the eleventh floor in the library that I’d ever heard the Primordials’ individual deaths referenced. I had never even considered where those weapons might be, or what became of them.
A soft, airy laugh escapes me. I turn to face my friends, my colleagues, with a sense of wonderment rippling through me like moonlight shining from my very core. I am holding one of the most powerful weapons in all of Arcathainian history, and none of them even realize it. Not only do they not realize it, they themselves could’ve been in this very position, but they all chose a different weapon.
As I return to my place among them, it’s easier than it should be to ignore Dimitri’s worried gaze.
“Are you sure that’s the right weapon for you?” he whispers to me. “With your build and skill set, a smaller blade would’ve been—”
“I’m sure,” I tell him, my eyes fixed on the etched shadowsteel steel, to the incantations that made it possible for this axe to tear down a Primordial. “I am absolutely sure.”
Bruises
Training Grounds, Castle of Nigh, Arcathain
If I thought our physical training had been grueling before, I was sorely mistaken. Now that we’re using weapons, it has left me far more exerted than I’ve ever been in my entire life. It uses more strength to heave our shadowsteel around, takes more effort to free our blades from the wooden dummies, and forces our minds to remain alert and ready to dodge at a second’s notice.
“Again!” Alphonse roars, cracking his thin sword against my already bloodied knuckles.
Weeks ago, the impact would’ve made me lose my grip, but thankfully my hands are so calloused by now that I almost—almost—can ignore it.
I tighten my hold on the black leather grip and find my stance again. What I wouldn’t give to be able to bury this axe into his shoulder, to cut out his wretched tongue so he might never speak ill of me again. Of course, to do that, I’d have to best him in a match, and last I counted, he’d still bested me a hundred times out of a hundred. To this day, the only recruits I’ve managed to win against are Maxwell, on more than one occasion, and Sai—though, I think he’d come to training inebriated that afternoon, which isn’t an advantage I’ll get once I’m in Blighted territory.
Before I can hoist my axe into its readied position over my shoulder, Alphonse lunges. His needle-thin sword thrusts at my gut, and I only barely scuffle back in time to avoid getting a new bellybutton. But that wasn’t his goal. No, of course it wasn’t. Like he’s done with nearly every one of our matches, his only intent is to throw me off-guard before the fight even has a chance to begin.
And it’s working.
I jerk back so fast that my axe falls forward. If I was a true Crusader, I might be skillful enough to use the momentum to my advantage and swing it in dancing motions before delivering a counter blow. But the axe is too heavy for my unaccustomed limbs. It plummets forward, jerking me with it, and before Alphonse can slice at my exposed throat, I have no choice but to abandon my weapon and leap backward again.
I thud to the dirt. Alphonse stands over me not a moment later, his grin smug as he aims his sword carelessly at my throat.
“Yield?” he asks, the tip of his blade pressing against the hollow at the base of my neck.
I’m forced to hold my breath for fear he may spill my blood yet, but there’s another reason too. I can’t allow myself to speak because I wouldn’t be able to give him the answer he seeks, the one I know is the only reasonable answer someone in my position should give if they want to walk away with their life intact. Call it stubbornness or pride, but I’m done yielding to him. He has shoved me to the ground too many times to count. I have cowered at his feet more times than I care to remember. Maybe I won’t ever best him in a physical match, but the yielding ends here, now.
He is not better than me. He does not deserve my submission. If anything, he should be afraid of me, not the other way around, because after all these years of loathing each other, I would not hesitate to end him were our positions reversed. I would revel in punishing him for his gratuitous cruelty, for the untold bruises and scars he left on and beneath my skin, for the years of torment and ridicule, for the way he spoke ill of my mother just days after her death.
If I could, I would return every ounce of suffering he bestowed upon me.
“Yield?” he asks again, his tone as sharp as the sword he presses harder against my throat.
I inhale deeper, but my eyes are set. I will utter no such thing.
Understanding flickers behind his eyes before churning into blazing indignation.
Before either of us can make our next move, a lone squawk tears through the silence that has settled over the training grounds.
Alphonse looks up. “What in the Eyve?”
The tip of his sword only remains pressed against my skin for another second before Alphonse starts screaming and flailing, a bird, black and large, curled around his face.
“Get it off me!” he cries, stumbling backward, my body freed. “Get it off me!”
I push myself upright and watch him stumble around the grounds with a massive raven clawed to his face, one that I dare wonder might be the same bird that followed me from Gravenburg to Nigh. The only trouble is that it’s a preposterous thought. Ravens aren’t exactly known for attacking people unceremoniously, nor are they known for seemingly following someone across the country just to stalk them and reappear in the worst moments, but I have no other logical explanation to grasp at. If what happened a few weeks ago at the library with the mice had been me somehow, then maybe I’m doing something to this bird too, possessing it to hang around, to step in for me when I’m in danger.
The other recruits swarm our general, but none of them get too close to do much to aid him. They don’t know what to do. Despite having shadowsteel blades in hand, Alphonse is flailing about so violently that even if they tried to avail him of the wild creature, they’d likely cut Alphonse down in the process too. With no other option, they yell at him to remain calm, to stand still, to stop running about, but Alphonse either can’t hear them or is actively ignoring them, too frantic to do anything but rack his hands at the bird.