Valrun

Dacira Loxley, who was once a noble Lord's daughter, sat on a rotting log that was crumbling apart each time she moved. She shivered fiercely in the freezing, soaking rain, her ruined velvet green cloak clinging to her body for some warmth.

The mud of the borderlands had been extra thick this year. The moors, as some call it. It was black, brown, and heavy layers beneath Dacira's brown boots. Every step she took since leaving Loxley Keep seemed to have pulled her farther from the life she had once known, a life of comfort, luxury, and others waiting on her hand and foot.

The moor borderlands were made of swamp, forest, and chilliness, nothing like the warmth of the stone halls of her father, Theodore Loxley's estate. Thick, gooey mud clung to her boots and stained the hem of her navy blue tunic, while the rain slid down her cloak and settled against her cold, shivering skin.

She pulled the hood of the cloak tighter around her long face, though the ruined, mud-stained velvet cloak offered very little protection from the elements. Three days ago, she had been known as Lady Dacira of House Loxley, and now she wasn’t entirely sure what to call herself without a title. All she had known was being the lady of a castle, and that was gone.

She was stripped of her title and banished by her own father; all she had left was a flashy, over-decorated blade she had stolen from the family vault. She drew the sword from its cheap leather scabbard and held it beneath the overcast grey light, examining the fake-looking gemstones set into the elaborate hilt. There was some old, ancient engraving that Dacira didn’t understand.

At first it had seemed like the most ridiculous weapon when she merely stole it. Ridiculous or not, it was the only thing she had taken from Loxley Keep that belonged to her for now. Well, except for her small red velvet satchel traveling bag, everything in there was hers alone.

It was just three days ago that Dacira had been walking through heated stone corridors in custom-tailored silk gowns, believing her father would somehow listen when she brought him proof of his treasonous pact with the neighboring crown. She thought he loved her; she thought she was doing what was right; wrong was she.

She thought he would care, but Lord Loxley had called her a liar. He burned the letters of evidence in front of her, and accused her of trying to destroy her own family from within. When his guards dragged her toward the castle gates, she made the realization about the truth far too late: her father would rather sacrifice his own daughter than risk his own title. He did it to cover his own tracks.

She had simply taken the sword on her way out, not because she could, but out of rebellion, saying the last fuck you. This sword had been sitting inside a glass display case inside the family's personal vault. It was decorative metalwork and fake fancy gemstones that made it look more like a lord's personal portrait prop than a piece for the actual battlefield. It had a specific character, much like her, or at least it seemed that way at the time.

In taking the sword, grabbing it felt like one final act of spite against the man she called father, who had thrown her away like trash. Now sitting alone in the freezing cold rain, she laughed, wondering if she had stolen the most useless object in the entire castle estate.

The moment the steel cleared the leather, a sharp, deeply offended voice echoed directly inside her skull. At first it seemed harmless and startled her, but it grew piercing and loud.

“Oh, you've got to be kidding me: this is treason,” the voice complained.

Dacira looked around at the dark, twisting trees in a panic, demanding to know who was speaking. Before she could take another breath, the blade pulsed with a pale blue light. It looked like an ordinary sword, but something terrifying was happening.

“Is that mud? I can smell the mud from here, and I assure you, girl, I have spent enough years around nobles to know exactly what belongs in the dirt and what most certainly does not. Put me back in the scabbard, Mortal, before you get another drop of rain on my crossguard, bad human.”

Dacira froze on the log she had been sitting on. Her fingers tightened around the sword as she stared into the dark trees, trying to figure out what had made the sudden noise. For a moment, even the cold rain seemed to disappear as she listened for whatever was moving beyond the bush.

Her finger tightened around the hilt as she stared at the perfectly ordinary-looking sword. She looked over her shoulder at the empty space of the forest, hearing frogs croaking in the darkness, then looked back at the blade. “Who said that? Show yourself.”

“Who said that?” the voice repeated, sounding personally insulted by the question. “I did, obviously. Unless you have recently discovered that trees possess a rare, specific aristocratic accent.”

Dacira slowly stood from the log that was barely holding itself together, from tearing apart due to weathering over time. The rain continued falling around her, dripping from the ends of her hair as she held the sword farther away from herself. “You can speak.”

“I can do considerably more than merely speak,” the sword replied. “I can advice you not to make stupid decisions, think, remember by recalling, complain, judge people by their word only, and under the proper circumstances provide excellent fighting advice.”

“Unfortunately, yes, I can speak. I am being held hostage at the moment by a freezing girl in the muddy, swampy area with trees in a forest who has absolutely no comprehension of proper care of fine weaponry, regardless of appearance.”

“What the fuck!” A freakin’ talking sword that answers back; great, I have become influenced by the worst luck known in the whole history of time. Now I am to be known as “the girl talkin to shimmering swords’ as a new title.”

Don’t all young ladies have a talking sword?