"You have helped us a lot," the woman said.
Kael stood in silence for a moment, staring at the sword she had placed before him.
It was longer than most blades he had seen, its edges dulled by time, its surface marked by faint scratches.
Despite its worn appearance, when he lifted it just slightly, the weight nearly pulled his arm down. It was far heavier than any ordinary sword.
His fingers tightened on the hilt, there was a little doubt in him.
(If this sword had belonged to a hero once before and to the future… then it's not mine to carry. I have no place with their kind.)
The woman noticed his hesitation. Her eyes, weary and red from years of silent suffering, looked down at the blade as if seeing it for the first time again.
Her son, no more than nine years old, clung to her side, gazing at Kael with curious but hollow eyes, the kind of gaze a child should never have.
"That sword," she said slowly, "belonged to my husband."
