They brought the glaives out just before sunrise.
There was no ceremony—only oil, cold air, and the dull clank of armored boots as Kael and Tharn lowered the twin crates onto the obsidian-fused sparring ground. The rest of the morning crew had already gathered: six glaive-bearers, including Ilven and Toma, stood in two lines, their breath visible in the chill.
The air was wrong again—too still. The kind of stillness that pressed against skin like it was waiting to be broken.
Kael unclasped the first crate.
Inside were the twin prototype glaives Riku had designed weeks ago—long, curved weapons of dark alloy, lighter than steel, with segmented cores that glowed faintly when gripped. Forged beneath Blackridge's main ventforge, pressure-folded over days in intense rotation.
Neither had been tested. Not truly.
Riku stood at the perimeter, arms crossed. "You know what I expect."
Ilven swallowed. "Survival."
Riku's gaze didn't soften. "No. Sovereignty."
He nodded to Kael. "Begin."
Kael lifted one of the glaives and handed it to Toma. The young fighter hefted it with both hands, unsure at first—then adjusting his grip instinctively. The moment his palms found the right hold, the glaive thrummed. Just once. Subtle. Like it was breathing.
Toma froze. "It moved."
"It read you," Kael said. "That's what the alloy's for."
Ilven stepped forward and took the second. His glaive didn't thrum. It hummed. A deep, low vibration that pulsed into his wrists.
Tharn circled the arena. "No hesitation. The blades don't need fear to function, but they will mirror it."
Ilven glanced sideways. "And if we fail?"
"You won't."
The signal bell rang.
Drill commenced.
Toma and Ilven moved first, circling each other in a classic duel formation. Their feet kicked up shards of black grit as they slid into motion, glaives whirling in short arcs. No flourishes. No wasted energy.
The other four stood by, silent.
The weapons sang as they moved—tones rising with each parry, changing pitch based on velocity. Not just blades. Instruments.
Riku noted how Ilven's was slightly more reactive, its core gleam spiking with every full rotation. Toma's was steadier—controlled. Less elegant, but more anchored.
"Glaive two's core stabilizer is overcharged," Kael muttered beside him.
"No," Riku said. "It's choosing."
Kael glanced at him. "You think they're sentient?"
"I think they're listening."
The duel ended when Ilven's blade caught Toma's collarplate with a flash of harmless light. Non-lethal—training-grade cores.
But the moment contact was made, both glaives flared.
Not hot. Bright.
Then dimmed.
Everyone went still.
Even the wind seemed to pause.
Tharn stepped forward, his tail coiling in slight agitation. "They responded to strike. That wasn't built into the alloy."
"No," Kael said, already walking to check them. "But it was in the pressure-folded veins."
He handed both glaives to Riku.
And the moment Riku touched them, both weapons glowed.
Not flare. Not shimmer.
Recognition.
Like they knew him.
The glow faded slowly, leaving the metal warm.
Riku handed them back. "Test complete. Rotate pairs. Track how long the cores stay awake."
Ilven looked at him, hesitant. "Are they... alive?"
Riku didn't answer. He simply said, "Treat them as if they were."
That evening, the glaivebearers ran four more trials. Each time, the weapons responded. Not always the same way. Some warmed. Some pulsed. One refused to glow until its wielder bled slightly during a parry—and then sparked to life as if sated.
The whisper-root began growing near the sparring grounds two days later.
No one planted it.
No one watered it.
But it grew.
Directly beside the mark where Ilven's glaive first struck armor.
By the fourth morning, there were three such roots. Thin, spidery things, barely visible against the black stone.
They all pointed inward.
Toward the blades.
Toward their bearers.
Toward something only they could hear.
Riku ordered no one to cut them. Not yet.
"Why?" Sira asked.
"Because we built weapons to serve," he replied. "And now something deeper wants to serve them back."
That night, Kael checked the storage crate.
There were two glaives.
Now four.
He checked again.
No sound.
No system alert.
Just the quiet realization:
They had doubled.
By presence, not by command.
And the whisper-roots, for the first time, moved.