Ethan stared at the weapon, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes—something tangled and hard to name.
It was a fragment of the Scepter of the Fey Sovereign.
He'd wielded it once, in the battle against the Archdemon Wyrmgod. But by the time that fight ended, the scepter had already shattered into motes of light.
Still, Ethan hadn't let it vanish into nothing.
He'd gathered every last shard, even the dust scorched down to pure energy. Then, he'd fused them with the Blade of the Fey—another relic he'd claimed in blood and fire.
The forging had been more than craftsmanship. It had been a ritual.
Two forces—utterly different—had clashed in his palm. They tore at each other, light and shadow, life and void, until they twisted into something new.
When it was done, a blade hovered in the air, glowing with a soft silver-green light. Its surface shimmered like moonlight breathing through deep forest leaves.
Ethan reached out.
