"A sword is just a length of sharpened steel. It cannot make you brave, and it cannot make you worthy. The first lesson of war is this: steel bends to the will of the one who wields it. And will, boy… will is forged in the moments when fear claws at your throat and you move anyway."
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The inn reeked of death and sulfur.
Dawn crept through the shuttered windows like a reluctant witness, casting pale light across floors still stained with Adnir's blood and the dark ichor of the slain Marduk. Two hours had passed since the demon's death, two hours since Kael had watched his dearest friend die while he stood frozen, useless as a scarecrow in a storm.
The wanderer sat hunched at the bar counter, nursing his third cup of ale while Nisheena moved behind him with practiced efficiency. Her silver hair caught the early light, and despite the cuts on her arms from the creature's claws, she seemed more composed than anyone had a right to be after facing a demon from the depths of hell.
Kael remained standing near the wall where he'd been when the Marduk burst through the door. He couldn't bring himself to sit, couldn't stop staring at the dark stain where Adnir had fallen. The image played endlessly in his mind, those crystalline fangs crushing through his friend's skull, the wet sound of breaking bone, the way Adnir's eyes had gone blank in an instant.
If only I had moved. If only I hadn't frozen like a coward.
"Stop torturing yourself," Nisheena said without looking up from the cup she was cleaning. "Self-pity won't resurrect the dead."
"Easy words," Kael's voice came out rougher than intended. "You fought that thing. You actually tried to save him."
"And accomplished what, exactly?" She set the cup down with more force than necessary. "Adnir is still dead. The creature would have killed us all if not for—" She gestured toward the wanderer.
The man in question took another long drink, seemingly oblivious to their conversation. Kael's sword, the one the wanderer had taken as a temporary replacement for his royal blade leaned against the bar beside him, the steel looking plain and inadequate compared to what a king's blessed should rightfully carry. Seeing it there made Kael's chest burn with shame and anger in equal measure.
"The townspeople have returned," Nisheena continued, her tone deliberately neutral. "They're waiting outside with whatever weapons they could scrounge. Still ready to follow their fearless leader into glorious battle."
The words cut deeper than any blade. Through the windows, Kael could see shapes moving in the street, farmers and shopkeepers armed with pitchforks and kitchen knives, faces bright with revolutionary fervor. They believed in him, trusted him to lead them to freedom from the feuding families' tyranny.
They had no idea their chosen leader was a coward who'd let his best friend die.
"I need that sword for now," the wanderer said suddenly, not turning around.
Kael's hand moved instinctively to his empty scabbard. "You already took it."
"I borrowed it. There's a difference." The wanderer's voice carried the weight of exhaustion and old pain. "Though I'm beginning to wonder if it's wasted on you entirely."
"I rescued you from Tarkun's dungeon," Kael snapped. "This is how you repay me?"
Now the wanderer did turn, those dark eyes meeting Kael's with uncomfortable directness. "You stood and watched while your friend died. That blade won't transform you into a warrior, boy. It'll just give you something else to drop when courage abandons you."
The words hit like physical blows. Kael felt his face flush hot with shame and anger. "I froze for a moment—"
"You froze when it mattered most." The wanderer's tone was matter-of-fact, devoid of cruelty but merciless in its honesty. "Adnir called your name as that thing tore him apart. He died believing his friend would save him."