Avin stood tall, fingers wrapped around the hilt of his newest treasure. His chest swelled with an arrogance so potent it was practically leaking out of him. The sword in his hand glimmered — not dull wood, not iron, not some petty weapon from the training racks. No.
It was the Holy Sword. Golden, divine, an object that felt as if the world itself bowed in its presence.
He turned it in his grip, letting the light slide along its edge. The blade hummed faintly, not sound but sensation, a vibration that rattled against the bones in his wrist. And his mind drifted, uninvited, back to Bram.
That fight. That wooden sword. Just a plank of wood, enhanced, and yet with a single swing he'd unleashed a shockwave. Stone had shattered, the ground had screamed, and Bram had been reminded that Avin Nulla-Chrono was no mere nuisance. That was only wood. Wood!
His lips curled into a grin.
"So how powerful will this be?" he muttered, voice low, drunk on possibility.
