Arkan couldn't go back to his room immediately, not with all of this confusion on his head. Instead, he stood perfectly still in the quiet, dim corridor outside the Khan's quarters. The wooden case tucked beneath his arm felt heavier than it should have. It wasn't just the weight of the wood and the steel, but the weight of the history inside it.
The guards posted nearby kept their distance, knowing that there were moments when you did not interrupt the Commander. And tonight was one of them.
A sword was not supposed to feel like this.
Arkan had carried weapons his entire life. He knew the balance of a blade like he knew the lines on his own palm. He knew the difference between a sword forged for a parade and a sword forged to kill. Which blades were meant to threaten an enemy, and which were meant to end a life quickly and silently.
But this sword was different.
This blade had been forged for judgment, for vengeance. It was a weapon designed to answer blood with blood.
