A sword. Asar’s sword—no, my sword. I had lost it when I fell into Srana’s forge. Yet, it looked different now. The broken blade glistened as if freshly polished, illuminated with a sunless glow. The leaves on the intricate hand guard quivered as if they were alive. And the hilt . . . the hilt had changed. Now it bore poppy petals, and outstretched wings that looked as if they were aflame. A phoenix. The dead pressed the hilt into my outstretched hands. Then, wordlessly, they melted into the mist, swept away with the fading embers of the underworld. And my skin, where they had touched it, was
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