Hero Of Broken History

The capital had grown like a tumor with ambition.

Where Avian remembered modest walls and organized districts, now sprawled a maze of architectural eras cannibalizing each other. Buildings climbed on buildings' backs, reaching for sky they had no right to touch. New money had gilded old stones until the whole thing looked like a whore who'd robbed a temple - gaudy, desperate, and trying too hard to forget what it used to be.

"Bit different from the estates," Kai observed, taking in the controlled chaos of the main thoroughfare.

Different? This place used to make sense. Now it's like someone gave city planning to a drunk god with a grudge.

"The growth is... ambitious," Avian said diplomatically, stepping aside as a merchant's wagon thundered past, wheels missing his feet by inches.

They'd entered through the Trade Gate, where the smell of commerce overwhelmed everything else. Spice merchants hawked beside weapon dealers. Fortune tellers competed with food stalls for attention. The crowd moved like a living thing, all elbows and urgency and the particular desperation of people convinced they were one deal away from greatness.

And through it all, Fargrim hummed.

Not audibly - the sound existed somewhere between Avian's ears and his soul. The blade had been drinking steadily from his mana for weeks, and now something stirred in its depths. Not full consciousness yet, but awareness. Like a drunk friend starting to remember where they left their dignity.

About fucking time you woke up, Avian thought at the sword. The humming intensified, almost petulant. Don't give me attitude. You've been sleeping for five centuries.

"—absolutely exquisite!"

The voice cut through crowd noise like a blade through butter. Avian turned to find a man who looked like money had achieved sentience and developed questionable taste. Silk robes that cost more than houses, rings on every finger, and the kind of mustache that required its own maintenance staff.

"Pardon?" Avian kept his voice neutral, though his hand moved instinctively to where Fargrim's hilt barely showed beneath his cloak.

"Your sword!" The merchant's eyes gleamed with the particular madness of collectors. "I can sense its aura from here. Pre-Empire construction, yes? The metalwork alone... may I see it?"

Fuck. Of course some asshole with more money than sense would notice.

"I'm afraid it's not—"

"I'll pay handsomely!" The merchant stepped closer, practically vibrating with acquisitive energy. "I am Goldus Merchantius, premier collector of historical weaponry in the capital. Name your price!"

Goldus Merchantius? What kind of name is that? Did his parents hate him or just have no imagination?

"It's not for sale," Avian said firmly.

"Everything has a price." Goldus pulled out a purse that clinked with the sound of excessive wealth. "One thousand gold? Two? I must have it for my collection!"

Fargrim's humming turned hostile. The blade didn't like being discussed like merchandise.

"The sword. Is not. For sale." Avian let ice creep into his voice.

"But surely—"

"The young master said no." Kai stepped forward, casual but positioned to intercede. "Perhaps you should respect that."

Goldus's eyes narrowed. "Young master? Ah, nobility. Well, that explains the stubbornness. Still, I'm sure we can come to an arrangement. I have connections, influence. Whatever you need—"

"I need you to fuck off," Avian muttered under his breath, then louder: "Good day, Master Merchantius."

He turned and walked away, Kai falling into step beside him. Behind them, Goldus sputtered indignantly.

"That won't be the end of it," Kai observed once they'd put distance between themselves and the merchant.

"No. It won't." Avian could already feel eyes tracking them through the crowd. "Collectors are like roaches. Persistent and hard to kill."

And now I've got merchant goons to deal with. Fantastic. As if this trip wasn't complicated enough.

They found lodging at the Silver Swan, a tavern that straddled the line between respectable and interesting. Clean enough for nobles slumming it, rough enough to have character. The kind of place where you could get decent wine and a knife fight with equal probability.

"Two rooms," Kai told the innkeeper, sliding coins across scarred wood.

"Just the two," the woman replied, pocketing the gold with practiced ease. "Top floor, end of the hall. Try not to bleed on the sheets."

"We'll do our best," Avian said dryly.

Their rooms were small but clean, with windows overlooking the tangled streets below. Avian set his pack down, Fargrim humming with what felt like approval. The sword liked being back in the capital, even changed as it was.

"Someone's watching us," Avian said quietly when Kai joined him at the window.

"The merchant's people?"

"Probably. Two on the corner, one pretending to shop across the street." He tracked their positions automatically. "Sloppy work. Either they're terrible at surveillance or—"

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Or they want us to know," Kai finished. "Pressure tactic?"

More like amateur hour. In my day, proper shadowing meant the target died before knowing you existed.

"Could be. Or they're just incompetent." Avian stepped back from the window. "Either way, we should split up. Cover more ground, harder to track."

"Divide and conquer works both ways," Kai pointed out.

"I can handle merchant thugs. Can you?"

Kai's smile was sharp. "I didn't lose the tournament because I couldn't fight."

"Fair point." Avian pulled his cloak back on, making sure Fargrim was concealed. "You take the merchant districts, see what you can learn about our friend Goldus. I've got... somewhere specific to check."

"Mysterious. Should I be worried?"

"Always. It's healthier." Avian moved toward the door. "Meet back here at sunset. If either of us isn't back by full dark—"

"Assume kidnapping or death and act accordingly?"

"You're learning."

They split at the inn's entrance, Kai heading toward the markets while Avian turned toward older, darker streets. The shadows following them hesitated, confused by the division. After a moment, two followed Kai while one stayed with Avian.

One tail? Insulting. I've killed armies and they send one fucking tail.

The path to the slums was muscle memory wrapped in five centuries of change. Streets had shifted, buildings had risen and fallen, but the bones remained. The smell helped - poverty had its own perfume, and it hadn't changed much. Desperation, old cooking oil, and that particular blend of too many people in too little space.

The crowds thinned as he descended through social strata. Merchant finery gave way to practical cloth, then patches, then rags. The buildings grew older, leaning on each other like old drunks sharing war stories. This was the real capital, the foundation everything else was built on.

Home sweet hellhole.

The shop was still there.

Avian stopped across the street, staring at a building that shouldn't exist. Five hundred years was too long for wood and wishes to survive. But there it stood - Brick's Odds and Ends, the sign faded but legible. The windows were different, the door had been replaced at least a dozen times, but the bones...

They kept it. His family actually maintained it all these centuries. Brick, you told them to do this, didn't you? Even knowing you wouldn't see it yourself.

Fargrim hummed, recognizing the resonance of old memories. This had been their safe house, back when Dex was just another slum rat with big dreams. Where they'd planned their escape from the streets. Where they'd divided their first real score. Where Brick had hidden things for a future that never came.

Avian crossed the street, bell chiming as he entered. The shop's interior was organized chaos - shelves packed with everything from rusty tools to questionable potions. Behind the counter, a young woman looked up from a ledger.

"Help you?"

"I'm here to pick up Lux," Avian said quietly.

The woman blinked. "Huh?"

"I said, I'm here to pick up Lux."

"We don't... I don't know what..." She frowned, then called toward the back room. "Grandpa? Customer's asking about something called 'Lux'?"

Shuffling footsteps. Muttered complaints about young people and their noise. Then an old man emerged from the back, ninety if he was a day, held together by spite and stubbornness.

He took one look at Avian's cloaked figure and went very, very still.

"Everyone out," he said quietly.

"But Grandpa—"

"Out. Now. Close the shop. Family emergency."

The woman wanted to argue but something in the old man's voice killed the words. She gathered her things, ushered out confused customers, and flipped the sign to closed. Only when the door locked behind her did the old man speak again.

"Five hundred years," he said, voice barely a whisper. "Five hundred years, and someone finally asks for Lux."

"You know what it means?"

"My grandfather's grandfather started this shop. Brick Ironsson. Big as a house, heart bigger than that." The old man moved slowly, painfully, toward a wall of shelves. "He left instructions. Passed down, generation to generation. 'If someone asks for Lux, you give it to them. No questions. No hesitation. That's the payment for everything.'"

"Brick had children?" That didn't match Avian's memories.

"Sister's kids. He died in the war, but the family kept his name on the shop. His orders were... specific." The old man pressed hidden catches, and a section of wall swung inward. "Down there. Third vault, back wall. Key's under the stone shaped like a wolf's head."

"You're not going to ask who I am? Why I know?"

The old man studied him with eyes that had seen too much life. "Boy, I'm ninety-three years old. My whole life, my father's whole life, his father's before him - we've been waiting for someone to say those words. You're here. That's enough."

Brick, you magnificent bastard. Even dead, you're still keeping your promises.

The hidden basement smelled of centuries. Stone steps worn smooth by generations of secret keepers. At the bottom, three vaults lined the walls - heavy doors that had been maintained religiously despite never being opened.

The third vault's lock turned smoothly. Inside...

"Hello, Lux," Avian breathed.

The wolf slept in a crystal cage, lightning frozen mid-strike around its form. Not dead - spirits didn't die easily - but dormant. Waiting. Its fur was storm clouds given shape, its form crackling with potential energy even in stasis.

He actually saved you. Knew I'd come back for you someday.

The crystal parted at his touch, recognizing something in his aura. Lux stirred, electricity dancing along its fur as consciousness returned. Yellow eyes opened, focused on him with ancient intelligence.

Then the wolf lunged.

Not to attack - to reunite. Five hundred years of separation ended as Lux slammed into him, spirit form merging partially with his own. Lightning crackled through his channels, wild and joyous and painfully familiar.

Missed you too, you overgrown static generator.

"That's... that's really him," the old man said from the stairs, wonder in his voice. "The instructions said the wolf would only wake for its true master. That it would know him regardless of form."

Lux materialized properly, sitting at Avian's feet like a dog made of thunderstorms. The wolf stood hip-high, its form shifting between solid and pure energy. Lightning jumped between its teeth when it yawned.

"Thank you," Avian said, meaning it more than words could convey. "For keeping faith. For maintaining this place."

"Thank Brick Ironsson. We just followed orders." The old man smiled, tears tracking through wrinkles. "Though I'll admit, I'd started to think it was just family madness. Keeping a shop for a promise five centuries old."

"What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. Everything. Brick said the debt was already paid in blood and brotherhood." The old man turned to go, then paused. "That sword you carry. Fargrim, isn't it? My grandfather drew pictures, said Brick described it perfectly. 'Darkest blade for the brightest soul,' he used to say."

Brick, you sentimental fuck. Even I didn't deserve that kind of faith.

Avian climbed back to the shop proper, Lux padding beside him like living lightning. The wolf drew attention - spirits always did - but in the slums, people knew when not to ask questions.

"One more thing," the old man said as Avian prepared to leave. "Brick left a message. Passed down word for word. 'When you come back for Lux, remember - the world's full of bastards, but some bastards are worth saving. Don't let them make you forget why you fight.'"

The words hit like physical blows. Even centuries dead, Brick knew him too well.

"I'll... I'll try to remember," Avian managed.

He left through streets that blurred with memory and rain that hadn't started falling. Lux trotted beside him, occasionally sparking with joy at freedom. The familiar weight of his oldest spirit companion mixed with Fargrim's satisfied humming to create a harmony of past and present.

But Brick's message echoed louder than both.

Don't let them make you forget why you fight.

Too late for that, old friend. Far too late.

But maybe... maybe not too late to remember what you were trying to tell me.