After much mayhem, castigating, and stacks of scrolls, rumor became fact, and fact was that Hwayoung had destroyed more than the far off mountain and what was in front of it. She had obliterated the hinterlands, lakes, and most of the Risini Canyon beyond, which was now simply called “Black Gorge”... along with several other villages.

  Hazahnahkah’s glimmer dulled with sorrow when he heard that last part. He had only intended a display of power and instead he had demonstrated a terrible potential. Terrible potential. The physicality of this realm beneath The Leviathan Sky was different from where he, December 11th, and Ysan had come. It was easier to destroy things. It was easier to reach things. It was a cruel way for Hazahnahkah to realize his imperfections. He had taken billions upon billions of lives: of ants, of birds, of hiliagalae.

  The village took weeks to get a hold of the situation. Hazahnahkah learned many things about this new home of his that he hadn’t been able to overhear while in the shed with the knife or during the training with the children. He was never able to confront her about what he had discovered from his dream. All he could do was listen.

  It was all he could ever do.

  The island village was a haven hailed as Osayn and it was the only thing about the world that was wonderful. All nearby terrain was almost impossible to cross, due to an encompassing region known as The Halo Blossom—an expansive ring of sakura petals that whisked those who stepped upon them to the afterlife—or at least that’s what the elders said.

  The Halo Blossom prevented the residents of the island from leaving, but it also protected them from Yurreth’s armies. The petals were highly poisonous to human flesh. Hazahnahkah turned his glare to the pink sea, not made of water, but of petals. The blade had never imagined imprisonment could be such a beautiful thing, for in those most recent suns prison had only meant dark places, stingy incense, and without the knife—loneliness. With the way the waves of petals licked the sand and swayed the harbor boats, he would have never thought they were poisonous at all.

  Now, the region was much easier to traverse. Hazahnakah had obliterated the isles, coral reefs, and distant underground masses that steered the petals into their usual turbulence. Now, Yurreth could come.

  Or worse. It always seemed like there was something worse.

  Hazahnahkah used his Second Terror to summon rain, and lots of it. He also used his Third Terror to synthesize essential nutrients like potassium, calcium, and magnesium into the most bioavailable forms. The villagers took this and thanked the sea.

  “Screw you sea,” Hazahnakah added.

  But the sword could not complain. His gifts were used well, to make rich hummus and brimming pumpkins. Whatever else he could do, he would try… but this did not help Hwayoung’s situation—or his.

  Eventually, it was decided that since Nazaki lost his arm, he would choose how the girl would atone for taking it. Although it was really Hazahnahkah who should atone. He could have healed the boy’s arm—if he understood it. Hazahnahkah needed to be held by him, he had no way of communicating this. It guilted him greatly.

  Nazaki had grown apart quickly from Hwayoung, but he did not seem eager or overjoyed to punish or pleased with the prospect of punishing her. He looked at her feet, not at her face when he spoke. “I don’t blame Hwayoung. She… didn’t know. I blame the blade.”

  As Nazaki should. Hazahnahkah felt relief.

  “Very well. We shall destroy the katana,” one villager said to the others.

  Another village retorted to that. “Can we risk unleashing the power it holds? It could kill us all. This is Vrast after all. A Rapscallion.”

  “Then we seal her away,” Another said. “Forever.”

  That sounded fair, but not quite sustainable. Hazahnahkah had been sealed too many times. It never worked. Someone always found a way.

  “Wait,” Hwayoung said. “My father blessed that blade. He will be so lonely in darkness… Please! At least bind him to something outside, so that he can breathe fresh air and hear crisp leaves and see my smile. It was an accident. A terrible accident.”

  So this is why Hwayoung refused to part with Hazahnahkah always. Ysan was not like this. She had never seen her parents in his sheen, for Ysan had Xiun and Xiun was one parent too many. Then again, not many saw their family in Hazahnahkah.

  Hwayoung: Withdrawn 25/100 → Affectionate 45/100

  Ysan: Lamented 100/100

  Nazaki was listening intently with his wrapped shoulder, but was still clearly and understandably enraged in his quietness. Hazahnahkah had never heard of this before. He was not sure when the girl had begun to think this, who her father was, or if she meant December 11th or someone else. Just like Ysan, Hazahnahkah figured he wouldn’t know her story for some time. For him, it had started in that cage.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The villagers swelled into a cacophony. Some people wanted to destroy the sword, others wanted to throw it to the Petaled Death to let it sleep forever. What everyone agreed on was that no one shared Hwayoung’s belief—or cared.

  Except Nazaki.

  But the boy spoke through his teeth. “Don’t we need The Sword’s Sister to keep those from outside Osayn away?” He stood awkwardly, trying to balance himself with the missing limb offsetting his weight. He clenched his wrappings as if the aching had just worsened.

  Most agreed with this, but even more shared the idea that lying about having Vrast was better than actually having her.

  “Yurreth would not know if we sealed or banished the sword,” one said.

  Another agreed. “Many will tell of what happened to the Risini Canyon, as well as the regions around it. There would be truth in our lie, and trouble in keeping it true.”

  “And if Yurreth comes anyway?” another asked, pushing back. “We’ll need to pick up Vrast. Perhaps it would not stand against Yurreth herself, but mayhaps it gives us a fighting chance to escape. We know what the sword now can do. Now, we bury it.”

  “I’ll keep it,” Hwayoung said. “I’ll make sure it never happens again—”

  A wrinkled worn hand struck her across the face. It drew blood. The man who swung was grimacing, ruminating on whether to strike again. “You are lucky Nazaki is not dead! This is a disgrace to what December 11th gave to bring you here!”

  “Then I’ll go find him!” she cried, not fazed at all. “I’ll bring him back. I’ll bring back all the Orphanspawn. You heard they killed Augustus. If they can kill Yurreth’s Left Hand of Pain—then they can kill Yurreth’s Right Hand of Pleasure! I’ll bring them here! And if I can’t find them… In one month I’ll come back.”

  Nazaki lurched forward slightly. Only Hazahnahkah seemed to notice he had something to say. His jaw clenched as he restrained himself. The sword was very surprised at what was happening, and he expected the elder to immediately slap the girl again and say she couldn’t leave.

  Hazahnahkah was wrong.

  “Make that two,” the elder said. “But that still leaves your atonement for Nazaki’s arm.”

  Nazaki spoke up, nothing that made any sense came out.

  Hwayoung reached for the knife at her back. She kneeled to Nazaki. “I have this knife. Nazaki can have it.”

  Nazaki still showed no feeling in his face. “A knife for a hand?”

  “A hand for a promise,” Hwayoung replied. “So for long as you accept the knife as yours, I will lend both my arms to you.” With deep sincerity and pain the girl offered the knife.

  The knife was clearly shocked, startled even. Hazahnahkah heard her gasp. Although no human could feel her trembles, Hazahnahkah shuddered to them as a tree did a raging earth.

  “I don’t want to go,” the knife said. “Hwayoung is my owner.”

  Hazahnahkah was at a loss for thoughts. “You did not care for December 11th when you plunged into his back.” He stilled, unsure if he should have blurted that. The accusation had been held in his heart for too long. “Why is it that you suddenly care about who carries you now?”

  “I am a tool, and December 11th made his choice.”

  “And you made yours,” Hazahnahkah said. “Why didn’t you tell me? That you were watching me? That you were with me all this time! I was so lonely!”

  The knife grunted. “I have no obligation to fill your solitude or give you my name… Just call me Knife, since that is as far as you know.”

  Hazahnahah yelled. “Knife!”

  For some reason, the knife laughed at this. It was as eerie as a phantom sprawled across the corner of a room, gone whenever one looked or listened. “You did this, you. You made me apologize for your mistake. Now… I am a debt.”

  Hazahnahkah fell quiet. Knife was not wrong.

  “Your fault is yours to fix,” she continued. “Apologies are titles. Meaningless without action.”

  Hazahnahkah tried to play and a boy had lost his arm. Could he dare imagine what would occur if he had tried to speak? There was too much at stake. What was left of him. What was left of Nazaki. What was left of Hwayoung. The very lives of the village. What remained of the land.

  Fear drove Hazahnahkah to his decision at that moment. “I can’t.”

  “You will regret this,” the knife said simply.

  Of course, no one could hear this conversation. Most were hesitant, knowing the knife was of great value purely because December 11th alone had carried it and had used it to battle the sword they believed to be Vrast. Hwayoung’s offer appeased the villagers, eventually. But it did not appease Nazaki. He accepted Knife begrudgingly, almost as if he just wanted to get Hwayoung to leave him.

  Hazahnahkah could not believe it. Not only had the villagers not told Hwayoung or the other children of December 11th’s fate, but they actively encouraged the pursuit of him when he no longer lived. Hwayoung meanwhile trained with a fake sword, gathered measly supplies that Yulisca could offer her, and prayed to Hazahnahkah. Most notably, Hwayoung held true to her promise. She awoke two hours before dawnlight to tend to Nazaki and make his days easier in any way she could. She cooked for him, cleaned for him, and even made new clothes for him. Yet Nazaki was somehow an even quieter boy than before. He did not even say goodbye each sunset. He never spoke to Hwayoung at all—or even looked her way. It struck Hazahnahkah then what his silence meant, even though he had pushed back against the villagers and accepted the knife from Hwayoung.

  Nazaki hated her.