Wondrous Item

Uncommon

The remaining piece of a blade that now consists primarily of its hilt and a few jagged inches of corroded metal. The hilt is forged from a dull metal with faint traces of gelwed inlay, most of which has flaked off over time. The grip is wrapped in layers of thin, dried leather so brittle that small flakes break away at the slightest touch. A simple crossguard—its edges rounded by centuries of wear—displays shallow engravings of stylized roots, though their details have largely faded into smooth, unrecognizable shapes. The exposed portion of the broken blade is rusted to a rough, uneven surface and ends abruptly in a jagged fracture, as if snapped by a tremendous force. The tang that once ran through the grip is partially visible near the top of the hilt, revealing hairline cracks where metal meets leather. Despite its ruin, the object retains a certain weight, the remnants of a once-proud weapon that has long since lost its cutting edge.

Āudānthyel (lowering his hood, glancing around nervously): I trust the hush of this hall suffices. But you and I both know walls have ears and eyes. I would not speak of such things if I believed them to roam free upon winds.

Hwyreiz (resting slender fingers on a parchment scroll, voice hushed): Ears and eyes can be bartered, young lord. But I have made my oath to secrets, and secrets alone: they are mine livelihood and nourishment. So fear not—say what weighs upon your soul, and I shall keep it locked, provided it benefits us both, and of course, the crown.

Āudānthyel (exhales slowly): It plagues me—these thoughts I shoulder. My father, beloved of all, or so they claim. Yet my dreams vision his fall. For the good of the crown, if his position were to fall into the hands of unworthy. Nay, I cannot allow it, and as such I have considered dire measures to take it to mine own hand.

Hwyreiz (arching a brow, eyes reflecting torchlight): A measure that might fling open the gates of sacrilege, no doubt. Are we speaking of subduing your father’s authority, or something… sharper?

Āudānthyel (voice unsteady for a moment): I see no path forward while he still breathes. I speak it plainly, though it curdles the blood. If the realm’s betterment means ascending swiftly, and if that swift ascension demands an unholy deed, then let the cost weigh upon me. I do not do this from hatred. Rather, I am convinced that I could rule better than he, and his position is compromised.

Hwyreiz (leaning in, a faint smirk at the corner of his lips): You realize, my lord, to speak so openly of removing the rightful heir is blaspheme of the highest order. The people revere his discipline, his luminous presence. Swords will be drawn, should they so much as suspect.

Āudānthyel (sets a palm on the pillar, glancing around as though each echo might reveal them): Then the suspicion must not arise. Silent blades reap the harvest of crowns. But I would not rely on blade alone. There are other ways.

Hwyreiz (tapping the scroll, eyes narrowed in calculation, feigning to take the conversation seriously): Indeed. Complacency is the foothold of ambition. But I question: you, a scion yourself—would you truly cast aside paternal bonds so easily?

Āudānthyel (clenching a fist): I was bred in a nest of obligations. My father’s star outshines any prospect I might hold. The more I remain in his shadow, the more I see what I could do. Let them call it a golden age. But a golden age can be a cage for growth. I would sunder that cage.

Hwyreiz (voice dropping to a murmur): If you speak it in riddles, it sounds no less monstrous. Yet I will not moralize. My question is how you intend to carry out such an act, your father cannot die, you know this. And, there are watchers in every corridor, old loyalists in every antechamber. He is heir, near to the root of god's favor. You risk more than the Senate’s fury. You risk the wrath of your grandmother.

Āudānthyel (grim determination flickers in his gaze): She has become complacent. The realm sees her less these days. And if I were to fell him, I would be lauded as the greatest champion of all times.

Hwyreiz (raising a brow): Is that so? You get ahead of yourself, child.

Āudānthyel: I am no child. A man who plots his father’s death can afford no illusions about his own soul. Perhaps it damns me. But Raskirith has known so many quiet fratricides, so many couched betrayals in centuries past—this is but one more. Or so I must tell myself.

Hwyreiz (laughing): Nay, surely not! Thou art but a child yet, and though fate may weave thee into greatness, 'twould serve thee better to turn thy mind to study rather than to slaughter. Thou art young, and this be naught but the wayward fire of youth. In time, thou shalt see the wisdom of thy father’s light and the boon it bestoweth. Fear not, for thou shalt carve thy name in the annals of history all the same."

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