I did not hesitate and flew straight toward the peak. Each step forward brought the summit closer, the black sword growing clearer against the dark sky behind it. When I reached the top, I landed softly on a flattened section of stone carved naturally into a circular platform. At its center lay another red circle. The sword stood embedded directly in that circle.
Only a few inches of the blade were visible above the stone, the rest buried deep within the mountain itself. The blade was black, matte and without reflection, except for a single silver line running cleanly along its center from tip to guard. The handle was wrapped tightly in dark rope binding, thin but firm, layered neatly to provide grip. The guard was minimal, practical, without ornament. There was no decoration on the sword.
I stepped forward and placed my hand on the handle.
The moment my fingers closed around it, death washed over me.
It was not an attack.
It was certainty.
