Rumlok （Part 4）
That night, Gareth lay atop the bearskin rug, eyes closed, fighting the urge to glance at the bed.
Each slow breath was a calculated imitation. His heart pounded as he strained to hear every sound in the darkened room.
He was desperate for answers.
Shadows flickered across the walls with each snap of the fire.
Gareth waited, barely daring to breathe. Finally, the others' movements faded. Deep, even breaths signaled they were asleep.
He rose, slow and silent.
He crept across the floor, each footstep measured and deliberate.
Rowena was a dark, still shape amid tangled fur pelts, her face hidden, body curled protectively around the mysterious scabbard.
Gareth's pulse thundered as he slid his hand under the blanket, fingers closing around smooth leather. He paused, sweat prickling his brow, certain she'd wake and catch him.
But Rowena only shifted, sighing softly in her sleep.
With painstaking care, Gareth drew the case free, feeling its weight settle in his hands.
He stole back to the fire. The orange light cast his shadow long and thin across the floor.
Beside the flames, he studied the sheath. Its surface was supple and rich; gold fittings glinted in the dim light.
Gareth marveled at its heft, unmistakably heavier than any ordinary blade. What was it made of?
He let his thumb drift across the gold button, its surface cool and slick beneath his skin.
The firelight revealed a faint emblem pressed into the metal. Gareth squinted, angling the sheath toward the flames.
For a moment, the symbol was unrecognizable. Then, clarity struck.
His breath caught in his throat.
The Etherian crest stared back at him, its forbidden curves gleaming in the low light.
A cold sweat broke out along his neck.
To possess anything bearing the Etherian mark was to invite ruin.
Memories of whispered warnings and brutal punishments raced through Gareth's mind. He glanced uneasily at the sleeping travelers, heart hammering, fearing they'd be discovered.
Why would the travelers risk everything to keep such a weapon hidden?
They could face confiscation, execution, or betrayal for a bounty.
Holding the sheath now, he felt the enormity of its secret pressing down on him.
Who had carried this sword before? How many had died for it?
Questions tangled in his thoughts.
A strange energy prickled along Gareth's skin as he held the longsword. The weight shifted, growing impossibly heavy, as if the blade itself resisted him. Every muscle tensed.
The hairs on his arms stood erect. A cold, unnatural chill snaked down his spine, burrowing deep into his bones.
Shadows from the fire danced hauntingly around him.
His heart beat harder in his chest.
His fingers shook as he unsnapped the gold button. The metallic click was unnaturally loud in the hush.
Slowly, he lifted the flap.
The moment his eyes fell on the handle, he sucked in a breath.
The pitch-black metal devoured the firelight, pulling his gaze into an endless, swirling void. Intricate embellishments swirled along the hilt, seeming to shift and ripple as he stared. The designs glimmered with a faint, sinister light, as if alive and watching him back.
A distant memory stabbed at his mind, sharp and elusive, vanishing before he could grasp it.
Had he seen this blade before, or only dreamed about it in a nightmare?
The handle and guard were impossibly perfect. The black leather wrapping so supple it seemed to beckon him, daring him to take hold.
Gareth's hand hovered over the hilt, frozen by dread and temptation.
A faint vibration trembled through the sword—almost like a heartbeat.
The flames sputtered violently, embers swirling upward. The air thickened, charged with a power both ancient and dangerous.
He wondered what it might be like to wield such a masterpiece.