The village of Blackthorn burns. Smoke chokes the night sky as you crest the hill, your heart sinking. These people sheltered you once when you first fled with the sword. Now they pay the price.
Screams and clashing steel rise from the streets. Raiders swarm like locusts, swinging axes at fleeing villagers and hurling torches onto thatched roofs. Their lean horses and mismatched armor mark them as desperate men driven to violence by hunger and need.
At your hip, the strifeblade pulses with an eager warmth. It could end this slaughter, make you the hero these people need. But each life it takes only hastens your pursuers. Save this village, and you might doom a dozen more.
As you creep through the shadows past a burning house, a shrill cry pierces the night. "Please! No! Someone, help!"
Rounding the corner, you see her: Aibell, the innkeeper's daughter who once tended your wounds. She struggles in the grasp of a raider, a rusty blade at her throat. Her eyes widen as she spots you.
The raider looks up, gaze darting to the sword at your hip. "That's a fine blade you've got there," he growls. "Hand it over, and maybe I'll let the girl go."
The strifeblade thrums against your leg. One swing could free Aibell, a woman who once risked everything for you.
Aibell's face twists in terror at your hesitation. Aibell's gaze locks with yours, a silent plea cutting through the smoke and chaos. The raider's grip tightens on her, the rusty blade pressing into the soft skin of her neck. A thin line of blood wells beneath the edge.
You do not move your hand toward Nemain. You will not draw it. Not here.
"The sword is worthless to you," you say, your voice low and steady, a lie that tastes of ash. "It's cursed iron. It would turn your own hand against you."
The raider's eyes narrow, flicking between your face and the ornate hilt at your side. He is hungry, desperate, but not a fool. The raider's grip on Aibell wavers, his attention fixed on the strifeblade, eyes dark with greed. Blood trickles from her neck where the rusted edge bites, a thin red line that catches the firelight. She whimpers, her body going rigid against him.
"Cursed, is it?" The raider laughs, a harsh sound that scrapes like steel on stone. "Then why don't you wield it?" He yanks Aibell's head back by her hair, exposing her throat fully. The blade trembles against her skin, his breath coming faster now, excitement warring with uncertainty.
Your hand stays at your side, fingers curling into a fist. The raider's laugh dies in his throat as your fist connects with his jaw. His grip on Aibell slackens, the blade slipping away from her neck as his head snaps back. She stumbles forward, gasping, blood trickling down her collarbone.
The raider recovers faster than you hoped. His fist catches you in the ribs, sending pain lancing through your chest. You stagger but manage to stay upright. Behind him, the village burns, the screams of the dying mingling with crackling flames.
"Should've just handed over the sword," he snarls, drawing his own blade—a chipped mess of rusted steel that looks like it's been buried for years. Your breath comes in ragged gasps. The raider circles you, his chipped sword held low. Aibell scrambles away, pressing herself against the charred wall of a smoldering hut, her hands clutching her bleeding throat.
"You think you're a hero?" the raider spits, his eyes wild with the reflected firelight. "You're just a thief with a fancy blade."
He lunges. You sidestep, the rusted sword whistling past your ear. You grab his wrist as he overextends, twisting hard. Bone cracks. He screams, dropping the sword. You drive your knee into his gut, and he folds, retching into the dirt.
You could end it now.