It happened during a spar.
Midday had brought a brief lull in Hollow scouting. The air near the obsidian yard was clean for once—no rot, no mineral sting, just the dry heat of controlled forge-breath. A few of the elites took the chance to train. Kael allowed it. The ground needed to remember footsteps that weren't always chasing ghosts.
Bren stood opposite Kiran, each armed with curved steel. Both wore half-plate over their tunics, breathing light, focused. Riku watched from the higher ridge, arms folded, while Kael adjusted a forge stencil nearby. It was almost peaceful—until Kiran's blade twisted in his grip.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
The hilt coiled mid-motion, turning under his fingers with a grinding sound that scraped nerves. He stumbled back, clutching it—then dropped it with a half-swear. The metal didn't hit the dirt. It hovered for a breath, then tilted and slid toward Bren like it remembered him.
But Bren didn't touch it.
The sword stopped, then pivoted slightly. It tilted toward Isha, another elite who had been stretching nearby. And when she reached for it—hesitantly, as though touching a snake—it leapt into her palm with a sound like drawn breath through glass.
Everyone froze.
The blade… hummed.
Not in the usual way. Not the familiar edge-tension of a perfectly-forged weapon. This sound was deeper. Almost pleased. Almost… loyal.
Kiran tried to speak, but his voice caught. "That's mine," he managed, stepping forward. "I named it. I logged the smith batch. I trained with it for two weeks."
Riku descended the ridge, slow and silent.
Kael stepped closer to Isha. "Do you feel anything?"
She nodded. "It's light. Balanced. But it's… warmer."
Kael's brow furrowed. "It's not heat-forged to respond that way."
"I know."
Kael reached out. "May I?"
Isha handed it over.
Kael examined the hilt, the groove-line of the fuller, even the texture of the grip. "No etching shift," he muttered. "Weight's the same." Then he turned the blade and studied the grain near the edge.
A breath later, he blinked.
"Steel's… rewritten."
Riku arched a brow. "What?"
Kael brought the blade closer to his eye. "The grain lines. They've changed. This isn't temper fatigue. This is reforged patterning—like the forge remade it. But it's been nowhere near the flames."
Kiran stepped back. "So it's not mine anymore?"
Kael didn't answer. Riku stepped forward instead.
"It's no one's until we understand it."
He extended a hand. Isha gave him the sword, and Riku held it loosely. It was well-balanced. Familiar, in some distant way. But it also watched him. Not with eyes—but with presence. Like the weapon remembered choices he hadn't made.
Then, in a flicker, the blade's edge wavered.
Shifted.
The hilt thinned.
And the weapon folded—not into a copy, but into a variation. A new blade entirely. Narrower. Meant for one hand. Meant for speed, not force.
Riku exhaled through his nose.
Kael stepped closer. "It's adapting. Choosing."
Riku nodded once and handed it back to Isha. "She keeps it. But log everything. Every movement, every strange reaction."
Kael was already reaching for his sketch-papers. "I'll need to dissect the original forge notes. Recreate the heat range, smith rhythm, even the ambient ore mix."
Before they could leave the yard, another sound split the air—a high metal ping, followed by a clatter.
Everyone turned.
On the far end of the yard, a second weapon—this one a glaive—had slid off its mounting rack. It now lay on the stone floor, vibrating subtly.
Kael muttered, "No one touched that."
Then a third sword followed. Then a fourth. Blades meant for standard elites. One longbow—still strung—groaned against the wall and twisted slightly, its frame bowing as though flexing muscles.
And then, in full view of the gathered elites, one of the prototype spearheads peeled apart its own alloy shell and reformed, curling around its haft like a blooming root.
Isha stepped back. "What's happening?"
Kael didn't answer.
But Riku did.
"They're listening."
Silence fell over the yard.
Then Kael spoke again, softly. "They're not all trying to align with the same hand. They're choosing… individually."
Riku turned to Kael. "New rule. From this point forward, no weapon is given a final name until a second handler confirms compatibility."
Kael hesitated. "They're reacting to identity, not orders. What if that's what makes them… deviate?"
Riku nodded. "Then we stop assuming ownership defines worth."
A tremor ran through the vault stone below. Just once.
Then silence.
Kael said, half under his breath, "They're not all going to pick us, are they?"
Riku said nothing.
Because he already knew the answer.