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It had arrived in the night, borne by Casadia’s fastest ship. The ship’s captain had personally delivered it to Haedren before departing in haste. It had not left his sight since. Haedren had studied enough history to know what it was, yet he had never thought he would ever hold it in his hands.
Dragonfang. The sword of Aurennis himself.
Never had so fine a blade been forged, and never had a blade been graced with a finer warrior to wield it. Haedren wondered how many foes had died at the edge of that blade, smote by the Dragon. The blade had been enshrined in Secara for years, yet here it was now.
Arkelai had never felt worthy of the blade. In his pneumonia-fueled fever, he had whispered a great many hard truths to Haedren. Those feeble whispers haunted him now, the confessions of a great man cursed to live in the shadow of one many had revered as a god. The weight of expectation had burdened Arkelai since he assumed the mantle of Guardian, and though he had served as well as any of the great Guardians of old, he was no Dragon.
“I was no hero. Not like him.” Arkelai had said, “After that arrow nearly killed me, I could never fight like I used to.” Arkelai had shown him the mottled scar on his chest where the arrow of an Aletheian rebel had struck him mere inches from his heart. “I never could swing a sword properly after that. I could never be the warrior I needed to be. I could build, I could command, but I could not fight. Dark times like these, our people need a true Guardian.”
The words echoed in Haedren’s mind as he stared at the sword. Outside, he could hear the shouts of men and the clanging of metal as the Empire’s greatest warriors prepared to do battle against the Endermen. He knew what he must do.
“Thorel,” he called to his steward, “bring me my armor.”
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Guardian of Casadia
Master of the Slayers Guild
Minister of Hermertian History
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