The sunlight danced down the length of the blade as Dolthafaer turned the sword over in his hands, examining the keen edge with a critical eye. It was a fine weapon – as fine as it had been the day that he had forged it, in the springtime of another Age. He had never had much of a passion for smithing, but this – this sword, his sword – was his greatest work, and even now, he was pleased with it.
Gilmakil, he had named it, for no real reason other than it had looked pretty in the sparkling light. It had been a simple time, and Dolthafaer had been a simple boy. He had not known that he would see his blade drenched in blood, and he had not known how it would make him feel.
Proud.
Strong.
Dolthafaer had sworn his sword to no one after the Last Alliance. His king was dead, his people were scattered, and his purpose – to fight, to serve, to follow – was gone. He had simply taken up his bow and found himself a different path.
But now he had a lord to serve, an oath to bind him, and an enemy to fight, though it still hid itself in the shadows. Dolthafaer had surprised himself as much as anyone when he had offered his sword to the mighty Hammers, but watching the lords Tindir and Estarfin in the Hall of Fire that night, his sense of duty had driven him forward.
Now he needed to keep his blade sharp and his skills sharper. The days ahead would be filled with training, bruises, sore muscles, scratches, and then, finally, a trial by combat.
Dolthafaer’s lips twitched into a crooked smile as he swiped a rag over the sword once more to wipe away half-imagined fingerprints. This was bound to be exciting, at any rate. It had been a long while since he had needed to prove his skill to anyone he did not intend to kill.
He was ready.
