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POV: Arthur Snow
Location: The Forge by the Godswood
The forge hissed in silence.
Arthur stood bare-chested before the anvil, the night air biting his skin. Snow fell gently, but inside him, a storm raged.
On the anvil lay the black shard—still, cold, ancient.
Next to it: Frostfang.
The blade he had forged with qi. The blade that had saved his life more than once. But it was no longer enough.
He stared at the two metals. One forged by his hands. One found in the belly of death.
Light and shadow. Flame and frost.
One born of man. The other... not of this world.
Arthur drew a slow breath. Then spoke.
"No more halves."
He raised Frostfang high.
And shattered it.
The Forging
Steel rang like thunder.
Three strikes—each driven with focused qi—cracked Frostfang into glowing fragments.
He laid them in the crucible. Then lifted the shard.
It pulsed once in his hands—cold flowing into his veins.
Then he placed it atop the broken blade.
He did not strike with a hammer.
He placed both palms on the crucible's rim and exhaled slowly.
Qi surged from him—spiraling around the forge. He reversed the fire.
Ice bloomed from the heart of the crucible. White mist curled into the air. The flame turned blue.
The shard resisted.
It twisted.
Screamed.
Then… it began to melt—not like steel, but like memory dissolving into form.
Frostfang's fragments shimmered, drawn into the black core.
And the two metals—one forged in fire, one born of darkness—merged.
The forge howled.
Arthur's body trembled, blood leaking from his nose.
He shaped the molten form with his bare hands. With qi. With will.
No words.
No thoughts.
Only intent.
Only silence.
And from that silence…
A new blade was born.
Long. Narrow. Curved.
Black as a moonless night, veined faintly with icy blue.
It made no sound as he lifted it.
Only a presence—cold, watching, waiting.
The Memory
The moment his hand closed around the hilt, the world vanished.
Arthur stood in a place that did not exist.
A sky of silver ash. A battlefield frozen in time. Shadows locked in eternal war—men, beasts, Others, all frozen mid-scream.
At the center stood a lone figure in black armor, kneeling before a pool of obsidian.
In his hand: the shard.
Arthur stepped forward. No footsteps echoed. Only silence.
The figure raised his head—and Arthur saw himself.
Not quite him.
Older. Sharper. Eyes like mirrors.
The figure whispered:
"We were made for the same reason."
The shard in his hand bled light.
Then shattered.
Arthur gasped.
And woke.
The Blade Spoke
He was on his knees beside the anvil.
Snow on his skin. Cold in his lungs.
But the blade lay in his hand—silent, gleaming faintly beneath the stars.
And in his mind… a whisper.
Not in voice.
But in feeling.
We are not two.
We are one.
Your sword is no longer your weapon.
It is your path.
Arthur stood.
Raised the blade to the godswood.
Its edge shimmered—not with light, but with purpose.
He did not name it.
It had named itself.
[Recommend the name of the sword please]
One blade. One man.