The room was dark. The oil lamp had burned out hours ago. Only the moonlight filtered through the cracks in the curtains. It painted silver stripes across the floor.
Yoren sat on the edge of the bed. He wrapped a strip of cloth around his wrist. The cut from the Nullkin claw was shallow. It had already stopped bleeding.
He tied the knot tight. He tested the movement of his hand. It stung, but it worked.
He stood up. He walked to the center of the room. The shadows shifted as he moved. They avoided his feet.
Yoren said, Come out.
The Thornmaw shadow emerged from the wall. It stood beside him. It was taller than him now. It grew stronger with every kill.
Yoren raised his right hand. The silver ring glinted in the moonlight. It was cold again. The heat from earlier was gone.
He focused on the feeling of the metal. He focused on the weight of the weapon hidden inside the band.
Yoren said, Fang.
The air shimmered. Soundless light fractured around his hand. The Obsidian Fang materialized.
The blade was long. It was blacker than the shadows in the corner. It drank the light instead of reflecting it. A single red line ran down the center of the steel. It glowed faintly.
Yoren held the sword with both hands. He balanced it horizontally. It was perfectly weighted. There was no wobble. No imbalance.
He had carried this weapon for years. He had struck bone with it. He had struck steel with it. He had struck magic with it.
The edge had never dulled. The blade had never chipped. It never required sharpening. It never required cleaning. Blood slid off it like water off oil.
Yoren lowered the blade. He brought it closer to his eyes. He inspected the edge. It was smooth. It was perfect.
He ran his thumb along the flat of the blade. He did not touch the edge. He knew better.
Yoren said, Still sharp.
The sword did not answer. It was metal. It was a tool. But sometimes it felt heavier than metal should be.
He walked to the table. A piece of scrap iron lay there. It was a leftover from a broken weapon he had bought weeks ago.
Yoren raised the Fang. He brought it down in a slow arc. He did not use force. He let the weight of the blade do the work.
The steel sliced through the scrap iron. It made no sound. The two pieces of metal fell apart. The cut surface was smooth like glass.
Yoren said, Impossible.
Normal weapons broke. Normal weapons rusted. Nullborn steel degraded after a few hunts. Rune Grade weapons needed mana to function.
The Obsidian Fang needed nothing. It only needed him.
He sheathed the blade. It dissolved into the ring. The air stopped shimmering. The room was dark again.
Yoren looked at his hand. The ring sat on his finger. It was simple. There were no gems. There were no inscriptions on the outside.
He turned it around. He looked at the inside band again. The scratches were still there. They were static now.
He remembered the first time he summoned the blade. He had been ten years old. He had been cornered by a Nullkin in the ruins outside the wall.
He had reached for a rock. His hand had closed around empty air. Then the hilt was there. He had swung it without knowing how. The Nullkin had fallen in half.
He had kept the ring ever since. He had never taken it off. He could not take it off. It fit too perfectly.
Yoren walked to the window. He looked out at the city. The Iron Veil patrols were gone. The streets were empty.
He rested his forehead against the glass. It was cold.
Yoren said, Where are you from?
The rings did not answer. They never answered. They gave power. They gave shadows. They gave weapons.
They did not give truths.
He turned away from the window. He walked back to the table. He picked up the two pieces of cut iron. He held them up to the light.
The cut was clean. There were no burrs. There was no resistance.
He dropped the pieces. They clattered on the wood.
Yoren said, Who made you?
He asked the question often. He asked it when he cleaned the rings. He asked it when he killed. He asked it when he slept.
There was no record of this metal in Veldrun. Nullborn did not have it. The Iron Veil did not have it. The ancient ruins did not have it.
It was unique. It was an anomaly.
Anomalies were dangerous in Verrath. Anomalies were studied. Anomalies were dissected.
Yoren sat on the chair. He leaned back. He crossed his arms. The red lines on his neck were faint. They were dormant.
He thought about the heat from earlier. He thought about the warmth in the metal. It felt like a heartbeat.
Weapons did not have heartbeats. Men had heartbeats. Beasts had heartbeats.
Yoren said, Are you alive?
The ring was silent. The shadow in the corner was silent. The city outside was silent.
He closed his eyes. He tried to remember the place where he found the rings. He tried to remember the face of the person who gave them to him.
There was nothing. There was only white fog. There was only the sound of wind.
He opened his eyes. The frustration was a dull ache in his chest. It was familiar.
He had learned to live with the unknown. He had learned to use the tools without understanding them. Survival did not require knowledge. Survival required power.
He had power. He had shadows. He had the Fang.
But knowledge was safety. Ignارance was a weakness.
Yoren stood up. He walked to the mirror. He looked at his reflection. The man in the glass looked tired. The eyes were dark. The secrets were heavier.
He touched the ring on his right hand. He twisted it slightly. It did not move. It was fused to the finger.
Yoren said, One day.
One day he would know. One day the rings would speak. One day the fog would clear.
Until then, he would hunt. He would kill. He would survive.
He turned away from the mirror. He walked to the bed. He lay down. He did not bother with the blanket.
The shadows moved closer. They surrounded the bed. They were a wall of darkness.
Yoren closed his eyes. He listened to the breathing of the city. It was slow. It was steady.
He didn't forge it. He didn't buy it. He still didn't know where it came from.
The ring that summoned it had never once explained itself.
It slept on his finger. It waited.
Yoren slept too. But his dreams were filled with black steel and red lines.
A/N Thank you for reading Chapter 5! The mystery of the Obsidian Fang runs deep. Why does Yoren know so little about his own weapon? Vote and add Ashes of the Twin Rings to your library to support the story. See you in Chapter 6!