Deep in Vault Seven-Seventeen, in darkness behind four locks and three seals, the Perfection Slicer lay on its stone shelf and felt something it hadn't felt in seven hundred years.
Loneliness.
Not the absence of wielders—it had been without wielders for centuries during its sealed dormancy before Greaves found it. Dormancy was just silence, waiting, potential energy with no outlet.
This was different. This was the knowledge that it had been found, had been used, had been reunited—however briefly—with its sibling, and had been rejected.
Not by enemies. Not by those who feared it.
By its own family.
The Blade had called to it across the distance, desperate with joy and longing. And then, at the moment of reunion, had pulled away. Had chosen wisdom over completion. Had begged its other siblings to stop it from reaching the Slicer.
Why?
