The display case stood before me, humming with silence.

  Inside—nothing extravagant. Just a sword. A short blade etched with an unfamiliar rune, sitting there like it belonged in a forgotten ruin. At first glance, it was almost underwhelming. But the longer I stared, the more wrong it felt.

  There was something off about it. Not dangerous in the obvious way—no hellish aura, no pulsing light—but it scraped at the edges of my being in a way I didn’t understand. It made me feel… void. Not fear. Not dread. Something worse.

  Null.

  Every instinct screamed not to touch it.

  But curiosity always was my favorite sin.

  I reached in, gripped the blade.

  The change was immediate.

  A shiver crackled down my spine—then through my entire body. My skin prickled, and not from cold. Something deeper. My sight blurred, not just visually but conceptually—like my thoughts had lost their anchor. The fog rolled in thick, dampening everything.

  I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even feel. Just numbness. Complete disassociation, as though I’d stepped out of my own flesh and was floating in nothing. And gods help me—I swear, I could feel my soul, distant, frayed at the edges.

  Still, I held on.

  Minutes passed. Or hours. I couldn’t tell. My perception was broken. But eventually, the fog began to lift. The sensation didn’t fade so much as change. The emptiness settled into something more coherent.

  Clarity.

  My vision returned—sharper than before. My thoughts snapped into focus like blades clicking into sheathes. My body, once battered and sore, felt light. Healed. My shoulder, bruised and twisted from earlier—good as new.

  I looked down at the sword.

  No longer dull metal with a lonely rune. Now it was wholly black, from hilt to tip, a shortsword of perfect darkness. Not deathplate—lighter than that. Fragile-feeling, but I knew better.

  Obsidian.

  Strong. Unrottable. Smooth as glass and just as weightless, but tougher than steel. The weapon shimmered with lethal poise. And now three runes marked the blade’s length. None I recognized.

  This… wasn’t just a weapon.

  By decree of the Cold, anything like this belonged to the Citadel. Artifacts like this were meant to be locked away, buried in vaults under wards and rituals.

  But I wasn’t giving it up.

  The blade hummed—not in the air, but in my mind. A word echoed with strange gentleness.

  “Dullness.”

  Its name.

  A stupid name. Fitting.

  I let the quiet settle inside me, then slung the sword across my back. It felt right. I’d always used a sword and shield, but dual blades had always called to me. This wasn’t just a new weapon—it was evolution.

  Time for change. Time for growth.

  I’d need to study obsidian. Understand it. Learn the language of the runes, if they were runes. And I’d need someone I could trust—someone who wouldn’t betray the Citadel with whispers and accusations. The less people knew, the better.

  If they thought I earned it, found it in combat, they might look the other way. If they learned I’d just… taken it… then the blade became property.

  Best to delay that conversation.

  For now, I still had that book to analyze. And the Chancellor—still limp, still breathing. Too long unconscious. I crouched beside him, checked his pulse. Alive. Likely concussed.

  Killing him would complicate things. Leliana’s fate was already delicate, and Chancellor Arnell’s corpse wouldn’t make diplomacy easier. No—better to bring him in alive, use the evidence, let the Citadel pass judgment.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  I hoisted him over my shoulder. Heavy bastard.

  The corridors still echoed with silence. I didn’t know what awaited outside—if Jorguh was still alive, if Manach had made it. Whether the mansion was a ruin, or worse—if there were soldiers waiting to cut me down before I crossed the threshold.

  But strangely… I didn’t feel fear. Not even tension. Just a calm acceptance.

  Whatever comes, comes.

  Maybe Leon’s fatalistic rambling was rubbing off on me. I chuckled at the thought.

  And walked toward the exit.

  I climbed the spiral staircase from the dungeon with the Chancellor slung over my shoulder, and passed through the broken underground halls like a ghost retracing steps already stained in blood.

  But the study... was gone.

  Where there once stood walls, beams, order—there was now fire. Choking smoke. Shattered stone and collapsed timber. The beam that had fallen earlier? Split clean in two, like the wrath of some vengeful god had come through here swinging. Flames licked across the floor and walls. Heat shimmered in the air like a fever dream.

  Corpses littered the way. Dozens, maybe more. Some armored, some not. Most charred or broken.

  I didn’t stop. Just walked. Past the ruin of what had been a home, a fortress, a prison—toward the courtyard.

  There, the aftermath waited.

  The mansion behind me was no longer a structure. Just a burning skeleton of architecture trying to hold itself upright. Most of it had collapsed in on itself. What walls remained stood like dying men—shaking, groaning, one hard breath away from crumbling.

  In the courtyard, a grim sight awaited.

  Jorguh.

  He sat slumped, the bulk of his frame still massive even in ruin. His armor was shattered—split down the chest, shoulder guards torn away, helm missing. His face was a mess of blood, soot, and swelling. His torso and arms bore cuts deep enough to see the meat beneath. The scent of burnt flesh told me he’d pushed his fire magic too far. His reservoir was tapped. If he had any left in him, it wasn’t much.

  Around him—five full battalions of warriors.

  City-guard, by the markings on their gear. They swarmed the wreckage, helping the wounded, carrying out the dead, but none of them dared enter the mansion. None of them looked ready to ask why.

  Jorguh had already been arrested. Shackled. Still upright, but only barely. I saw no trace of the enemies we’d come to face—no black-plate mercenaries or traitor guards.

  Dead or escaped.

  But even among this organized chaos, something stood out.

  Paladins.

  A wall of them, gleaming in gold- and white-plated armor, marked with the iconography of dawn. Holy men and women in battle-sheen plate, blades at their hips, helms hiding faces twisted in judgement. The Temple of Uhtras—faithful of the Dawn.

  I hadn’t seen their temple, but I knew it was here.

  The moment they saw me, half a dozen soldiers broke off from the line and rushed me. Spears, pikes, shields—they surrounded me with surgical precision. I didn’t flinch.

  “I have the Chancellor here,” I said evenly. “He’s alive. He needs immediate care.”

  They didn’t answer.

  Some of them looked scared. Their eyes weren’t on the Chancellor. They were on me. I saw the question in their minds, unspoken but loud: What is he?

  I didn’t blame them. Jorguh had reduced the mansion to rubble, but I wasn’t innocent. I'd killed men. Women. Soldiers. I was bloodstained. Coldian. They didn't see a savior.

  They saw a monster.

  Then, one of the paladins stepped forward—distinguished by the crest on his chestplate: a chalice holding the sunrise.

  He removed his helm, revealing a man with iron-gray eyes, long hair pulled into ceremonial braids, and a voice that rang with disciplined authority.

  “My name is Graveth Wellbrath,” he said, voice like tempered steel. “I am Knight-Commander of the Temple of Uhtras. By the order of Lampis and the Light Decree, you are hereby taken into custody, charged with murder, destruction, civil unrest… and treason.”

  He paused. “Do you understand these terms, and do you accept them?”

  “No,” I said plainly. “By the order of the Sheer Cold Empire, you have no right to charge me with treason. And something else—why is it your Temple taking me, and not the city’s guards?”

  Graveth didn’t hesitate.

  “You’re correct. I retract the charge of treason. That is beyond our jurisdiction. However, the Parliament has granted us power to act. The guards refused. They… wish no part in detaining a Coldian.”

  So it was like that.

  I lowered the Chancellor to the ground carefully. “He has a concussion. Will you treat him?”

  Graveth gave a short nod. “We will.”

  He gestured, and his paladins came forward. They took the Chancellor gently—like cargo, not a man—and left me standing alone again.

  “Will you come in peace?” Graveth asked.

  I nodded. “I will. But I have two demands. Fulfill them, and I won’t resist arrest.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Speak.”

  “I want my companions brought with me—Leliana Anckeryouth, Leon Maldwse, and Jorguh Rockut. And the Coldian in the hospital. His name is Manach. I want them in the same custody location.”

  Graveth nodded. “Leliana has already delivered the Coldian to our temple. Leon is with her. We will bring Jorguh. That I can promise.”

  “And my second request,” I said. “Do not touch my gear.”

  He tilted his head, weighing my words.

  “You will not be permitted weapons in custody.”

  “Then lock them in a chest,” I replied. “A sealed one. Your lock, your key. But no one touches it.”

  “Agreed. It will be kept separate. Your equipment will be treated as evidence. It will not be handled unless you are proven guilty.”

  “I accept.”

  Minutes later, a lockbox was brought. Heavy, iron-bound, blessed most likely. I placed my gear inside—carefully, reverently. Especially Dullness. I saw their relief as I complied. Like they expected me to resist, to lash out, to confirm their fear of what a Coldian could become.

  Graveth, to his credit, looked surprised. Maybe even impressed.

  The march through the city was long.

  Crowds lined the streets, held back by paladin shields and words of the Light. I saw spit readied but never thrown. People shouted, sure. But not many. Maybe their faith demanded dignity.

  Or maybe… just maybe… they weren’t sure I was the villain.

  I didn’t know what would come next.

  But I walked into it willingly.