The Mythic Artifact known as the Boundary Stone Needle was a masterpiece in every sense of the word. Marcus could not even begin to guess what material it had been forged from. It was small and exquisitely crafted, no longer than a dagger, yet its edges carried a razor-thin sharpness that seemed capable of splitting more than flesh. Even at rest, it radiated a sense of restrained lethality.
The needle hovered in midair, bathed in a crimson glow. Wisps of white mist coiled around it in a slow, endless spiral, drifting upward as though drawn toward some unseen sky. With each silent rotation, more of that mist spilled out, dissolving into the air.
Marcus approached it carefully, half-expecting some violent backlash or hidden trial. Instead, when he reached out, the process was almost anticlimactic. The Boundary Stone Needle simply lowered into his palm as if it had always belonged there. No resistance or struggle. It accepted him without protest.
