Wondrous Item

Very Rare

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.   Use in conjunction with Thearumant to engage in spiritual combat with the remains of Sir Cyrsyg.

He moved with the grace of twilight, gliding noiselessly through corridors whose walls stood mute, indifferent sentinels to his trespass. In Raskirith, darkness was not known, banished of the Great Tree; yet tonight its radiance was dimmer than had been, an omen Audanthiel meant fully to exploit.
Through this slighter illumination, he threaded his path, unseen, unheard, cloaked not merely in shadow but in malignant resolve. The knife blade, concealed beneath the heavy folds of his cloak, trembled slightly against the urgency of his grasp, a cold promise forged in metal. Audanthiel would carve his legacy this night upon his father’s very flesh.
Ellaher was due to return from his journey today, weary from travel and vulnerable to a son’s treachery. Audanthiel paused momentarily before the hidden passage, breath stilled, heart locked in a grim rhythm of purpose and dread. Then, carefully, deliberately, he slid behind the faded grandeur of an ancient portrait, pushing into the hidden corridor that led directly to his father’s chambers.
Slowly, with a breath drawn taut in his chest, Audanthiel eased open the concealed panel behind the painting. The hinges protested softly, whining as though lamenting their betrayal of a lord they had long served faithfully. He muttered dark curses beneath his breath, words older than his own bones, condemning the neglectful stewards who had allowed age to corrode their vigilance. Holding himself utterly still, he waited, heart hammering fiercely until the chamber beyond responded only with silence.
Satisfied, Audanthiel knelt with measured care, setting his shoes upon the cold stone floor. The chill seeped into his flesh, but discomfort was a small price to pay for silence. He rose, knife held firmly, its blade a sliver of cold, indifferent metal that drank hungrily of the faint treelight filtering through the balcony to his right. He crept forward with predatory caution, each step placed deliberately upon the cool stone tiles, softer than a whisper, quieter than a wraith.
The bedchamber stretched before him in solemn shadow, a temple of quiet repose that would soon bear witness to deeds everchanging the path of the city. His heart thundered, a frantic beast in his chest, the roar of blood in his ears a harsh judgment against the sacrilege of kinslaying that he was soon to commit. Yet ambition compelled him, silencing all remorse, all hesitance. Audanthiel moved forward, cloaked in thick purpose, to where the bed lay. But looking upon the sheets, his father was not there.
Audanthiel's breath froze in his chest. A faint rustle came from the far side of the chamber, the subtle click and groan of the door’s iron latch echoing softly against ancient stone. Panic seized him; swiftly, like a hunted beast, he retreated towards the wall, frantically searching. With haste, he slipped into a wardrobe, the wooden doors closing around him like a tomb, his heartbeat pounding so fiercely that it threatened to betray him to the intruders.
From the murky darkness of his hiding place, Audanthiel strained his ears, listening intently as two figures crept into the chamber.
“Come, fool, close the door behind thee,” hissed the first voice—a withered rasp, cracked with age yet accustomed to command. It carried with it the sternness of a teacher scolding a wayward child, mingled with a disdain as brittle as parchment.
The second figure muttered something low and unintelligible, slurred by drink or some intoxicant. Footsteps shuffled forward, unsteady yet obedient, followed by the soft thump of the door being pressed firmly shut.
“Thou wouldst best sober thyself, and swiftly,” the first voice admonished, impatiently rustling through parchment and vellum at Ellaher’s cluttered desk. “Our lord shall brook no foolery, least of all from thee. What misfortunes thou dost court with thy recklessness!”
The second figure mumbled something unintelligible, his words thickened, sodden with drink. Audanthiel recognized that voice, a petulant murmur muffled by indulgence, familiar enough to set his heart racing faster still. Yet it was the first speaker who truly demanded his dread...someone older, sterner, whose identity danced just beyond Audanthiel’s grasp.
“Aha, here doth lie the ledger,” the aged voice murmured with grim satisfaction, a thin rustle of parchment betraying his discovery.
“W-what ledger dost thou mean?” slurred the younger companion, stumbling over words thickened by wine or fouler draught.
“Thou art yet duller than I feared,” sneered the elder, disdain sharpening his tone. Hwyreiz moved restlessly, the leather soles of his boots echoing dully across the cold stone floor. He paused, glaring fiercely through the dim at Esoryth, whose slouched figure was wavering, swaying slightly as though standing were a task requiring great effort. “Look upon me, thou witless wretch,” Hwyreiz snapped, voice honed like a knife-edge. “Thy drunken stupor ill befits the gravity of this hour.” Hwyreiz stepped forward swiftly, seizing Esoryth roughly by the collar, his face a mere finger’s breadth from the younger man’s. “Dost thou truly play the fool, or art thou indeed so addled as to forget thy vile transgression against House Ārdsun?”
Esoryth flinched, his voice faltering, weakening beneath the harsh accusation. “I—I comprehend not thy meaning clearly. Speak thou plainly, lest thou confuse me further with riddles and threats.”
“Riddles?” Hwyreiz spat the word as though it were poison on his tongue. “There were no riddles when I found thee with the girl, Lysteref, only daughter of House Ārdsun. Hast thou truly purged from memory the violence thy drunken hands wrought upon her virtue? Upon her life? Upon her writhing body under your hand?”
Recognition, and a flicker of shame, or merely fear, crossed Esoryth’s paling features. “Thou—thou hast no right to judge!”
“I am no judge,” Hwyreiz interrupted icily, releasing his grip and pushing Esoryth back, sending him stumbling. “Yet I alone stood as thy shield, Esoryth. Dost thou recall? The girl lay senseless upon the marble floor, breath fading, her innocence rent from her by thy madness. Discovery would hath spelled ruin—no mere scandal, but chaos writ large upon this entire city.”
Esoryth stammered, words clumsy in his mouth, but Hwyreiz continued relentlessly, voice lowered, vibrating with intensity.
“I acted swiftly, quietly. I dealt with witnesses—guards, servants—each silenced by gold or by blade. Lysteref herself did languish in tormented sleep, stricken to coma by thy brutish assault. Yet even that I could not leave to chance.”
Esoryth staggered backward, clutching blindly at the desk behind him for support. “But…why dost thou burden me thus? Why speakest thou of such deeds to me now?”
Hwyreiz sighed sharply, his eyes narrowing. “Because, fool, thy sin hath bound us together in dark covenant. Payment for silence grows costly, Esoryth. My bribes fill pockets that grow ever deeper, ever hungrier. Yet if I fall—if my unmarked moving of gold is found—all secrets held tight shall spill forth like blood from opened veins.”
Esoryth drew a shuddering breath, dread dawning slowly. “Then…thou sayest that should Ellaher’s inquiries uncover thy misdeeds—”
“Indeed,” Hwyreiz finished coldly. “Should Ellaher’s relentless gaze settle upon these accounts,” he gestured bitterly toward the desk piled high with ledgers, “he shall discover far worse than mere unmarked expenses. He shall learn of coin paid in darkness, each piece linking back to thee, tracing thy monstrous act plainly as day upon parchment.”
Esoryth swallowed hard, his face drained of color. “And what fate awaits me should Ellaher learn of this?”
Hwyreiz sneered, his voice dripping venom. “At best, exile in shame and disgrace, yet more likely thy neck severed upon the executioner’s block. And House Ārdsun—” he smiled bitterly, humorless as death, “they shall hunt me without mercy. For though thy crimes are grievous, mine were born of cunning complicity. Blood feuds, thou knowest, outlive mere men.”
Esoryth’s voice shook, desperation dawning in his eyes. “Then what shall we do? The ledger—can it not be taken, hidden, burned to ash?”
“Nay,” Hwyreiz snapped bitterly. “Ellaher guards these papers with fastidious zeal. They are numbered, counted, recorded—each missing leaf would invite suspicion like a beacon of flame. The ledger cannot vanish, lest all unravel swiftly.”
Esoryth’s breathing quickened, panic rising to choke his words. “Then are we lost? Doth no path lie open to salvation?”
Hwyreiz stepped closer, eyes gleaming darkly, his voice a whisper heavy with implication. “Only one path, Esoryth. Ellaher alone holds power to condemn us. While breath remains within him, ruin hangs above our heads like executioner’s blade. Yet should he perish—tragically, swiftly, and without warning—his suspicions and his inquiries die with him. A new order, blind to past sins, may yet arise.”
Esoryth stared, dumbstruck, realization sinking like iron into his soul. “Thou speakest treason.”
“I speak survival,” Hwyreiz answered coldly, eyes glittering in the half-light. “Think upon it, Esoryth. Survival demands sacrifice—and blood must be spilled anew if we are ever to breathe freely—"
The door creaked softly again, and a gentle, timid voice broke the tense silence.
“My lords, I—I did not expect to find anyone here,” stammered the maid, clearly startled. Her voice trembled like a reed in the wind, uncertain and fearful.
Swiftly, Hwyreiz composed himself, his voice shifting seamlessly into tones of practiced charm and reassurance. “Ah, fret not, good maiden. Thy diligence is commendable, yet ill-timed. We sought only quiet counsel away from curious ears. Thy entrance is innocent and brings no harm.”
There was a pause, delicate and uncertain. The maid’s voice returned, hesitant and apologetic, “Shall I take my leave, then, my lord?”
“Nay, there is no cause for alarm,” Hwyreiz replied smoothly, his words steeped in warmth and authority. “Thou hast caught us merely in idle conversation. Yet thy discretion is required, dear one. Our Lord Ellaher must not be disturbed upon his return, weary as he surely is. Thou understandest my meaning?”
“Yes, of course, my lord,” she answered swiftly, reassured by his masterful charm. “I meant no intrusion.”
“Then none shall be noted,” Hwyreiz assured her gently, his voice honeyed and reassuring. “We were just departing.”
The maid murmured her agreement and entered.
The two men left the room. Their footsteps receded, and Audanthiel waited, watching the room.
Audanthiel froze again, his blood turning to ice. There, precisely beside the door through which Hwyreiz had passed moments before, lay his discarded shoes, neatly placed—and unmistakably noticed.
A chill dread twisted his gut. Hwyreiz would know someone had been there, lurking in the shadows. Audanthiel’s heart raced painfully in his chest as realization descended upon him like the blade he still clutched tightly in his palm: he had stepped blindly into deeper shadows than he could have ever imagined.
The maid hummed softly to herself—a tune innocent and oblivious to the darkness lurking in the chamber.
Hidden hastily within the shadow of the dresser, Audanthiel scarcely breathed, his grip tightening upon the hilt of his dagger until his knuckles whitened like bone. His heartbeat thundered painfully against his ribs, each breath carefully stilled lest it betray him. She moved through the room, skirts rustling, feet padding softly as she performed her tasks, utterly unaware of the man concealed but a few paces away.
Then, as fate’s cruel hand ordained, she stepped toward the dresser, seeing that it had been left ajar, she opened it.
In that instant, their eyes met—hers wide, startled, and filled with dawning horror, his narrowed in bitter calculation. She opened her mouth to scream, to raise an alarm that would spell certain doom. Yet Audanthiel, driven now by instinct honed in the fires of his desperation, sprang forward and seized her by the throat, smothering the sound before it could escape her trembling lips.
“Forgive me,” he rasped, voice raw, barely above a whisper, as the blade sank silently between her ribs. Her eyes widened in shock and agony, the betrayal of life flickering away like a fading candle. He lowered her gently, almost reverently, to the floor as her slender form slackened and fell still.
Yet before the deed could fully register, a noise from behind drew Audanthiel’s gaze, swift and panicked, toward the doorway.
Sir Cyrsyg stood there frozen, face pale as death, eyes wide in uncomprehending disbelief. His lips parted in a voiceless plea, hands raised in terrified supplication. He stumbled back, gasping out a strangled whisper, “My lord—mercy—”
Audanthiel lunged with the merciless speed of desperation, knife flashing cruelly in the light. Cyrsyg barely had time to recoil, the plea unfinished on his trembling lips, before blade opened his throat in a silent, red arc.
The knight collapsed heavily, blood pooling upon the polished stone floor, eyes fixed upward in eternal disbelief. Audanthiel stood over him, breath ragged, blade slick with betrayal and necessity alike. For a heartbeat he stared, shaken by what his hands had wrought—then steeled himself against the nausea that threatened to rise.
He left the bodies upon the floor and vanished into the night. No witnesses.

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