By Thornshield

Chapter 1

The moon is at her full, and riding high,

Floods the calm fields with light.

The airs that hover in the summer sky,

Are all asleep tonight.

~William Cullen Bryant~

Nestled between a forest and a valley lies a modest stone building which a famous individual calls home. Once, this area was a quiet haven, but as of late, the trader’s route passes along it, bringing about noise and merriment in the day. For not only is it a home, it is a shop, a smithy to be precise. Known as the Armoury of Thorns to the locals, the proprietor is a friendly person by the name of Thornshield, a skilled smith who sells his goods for incredibly low prices.

During the night however, all is silent except for the repetitive sounds of a hammer beating molten metal, as Thornshield (or Thorn as we shall now call him) works at the forge. On this very night, when the moon was full, Thorn was working late into the night when another noise penetrated the night’s silence.

Putting down his hammer, the smith gazed out of the window to stare at the cold face of the full moon. That was odd; he thought to himself, there shouldn’t be any wolves around here. Once more the sound of a wolf’s cry could be heard and he noted it sounded more like a cry of anguish than the usual howl. Shrugging, he got back to work and didn’t notice the clouds beginning to obscure the moon’s rays.

An hour later, when the task at hand was completed, Thorn removed his smith’s apron and gloves, replaced his tools and put out the forge’s fires. Satisfied with himself, he walked out of the forge room, and into the hall where he displayed his work for sale. Heading to the counter, he was about to reach for a bottle of wine from the cupboard behind it, when he heard a faint scratching sound coming from the store’s entrance.

Frowning, he grabbed hold of the nearest weapon on display, a scimitar with gold markings, and moved cautiously to the large wooden door. The scratching persisted, but was getting fainter by the second. Steadying himself, he unbolted the door and pulled it open with one hand, the other gripping the scimitar’s hilt tightly.

“Who’s there?” he called out, his voice echoing through the night.

Looking straight ahead into the dark sky, there was nothing to be seen. Squinting, as the lack of moonlight obscured his vision, Thorn scanned the left and was about to look right when something brushed at his feet.

Startled, he jumped backwards and dropped into a defensive position when a voice called out. Barely more than a hoarse whisper, he caught his name and the word help. Rushing forward, he finally noticed what he missed and gasped.

Lying on the floor was a body, face down and covered with blood, with tattered clothing barely hanging on. It raised its hand feebly in a call for help, and Thorn quickly dropped the weapon, and moved to its side. Turning the body over carefully, Thorn was shocked by the person’s identity.

“Ambrose!”

With tremendous effort, the bloodied person nodded, before going unconscious. Lifting him up carefully, Thorn brought him to the spare room at the back and laid him on the bed. Though flustered, the smith tended to his wounds and cleaned him up properly. As he wrapped the last of the cuts with cloth, Ambrose stirred into consciousness.

“Thank you Thorn,” he said slowly, before grimacing in pain.

“You’re welcome,” Thorn replied, “But now’s the time to rest.”

Ambrose smiled weakly and nodded, before closing his eyes, immediately falling to sleep. With a sigh of relief, Thorn sat by his side and was soon immersed in his thoughts.

Chapter 2

Thorn looked up from the counter as the doors of his store swung wide open. It was a warm summer’s day and the smith had just finished a transaction with another customer. Smiling to himself at the Armoury’s increasing popularity, he studied the person who stood before him.

It was a man, as tall as himself, but in Thorn’s eyes, was seemingly taller, probably due to his lithe figure and proud composure. This new customer was dressed in rich clothing fitting that of the nobility yet practical in a sword fight. By his side hung an elegant rapier and in his right hand was a leather pouch, fat with gold coins within.

“Welcome to the Armoury good sir, I am Thornshield, owner of this humble establishment. How may I help you?” he asked politely, his dark black eyes meeting a pair of clear blue eyes.

“Good day to you my good man, I am Sir Ambrose Maurlias and I am in need of a weapon replacement,” the customer replied as he took another step towards the counter, his blonde ponytail bouncing slightly.

“Oh? And what of that fine weapon you have there?” asked Thorn in reply, referring to the rapier Ambrose had by his side, at the same time thinking of a suitable weapon he had in stock.

“A friend entrusted this to me, after my last one snapped in a ferocious duel. Hence, I would need a new one immediately.”

“Very well then, I have just the thing,” said the shopkeeper, “I have it stored at the back, for it’s far too valuable to be displayed out here. Follow me please.”

Walking behind Thorn, Ambrose followed him through a door near the counter, and down a corridor. It was warm, but not stifling, as the heat from the forge emanated throughout the building. As they walked towards the room where Thorn kept weapons of great value, Ambrose noticed a room to his right, with the door ajar.

Glimpsing in unintentionally, he immediately realised that it was Thorn’s bedroom, but what really caught his eye was a suit of armour and a long sword in its scabbard, propped up against the bed. That’s strange; he thought to himself, why would a smith like him have a suit of full plate armour in his bedroom?

“Here we are,” announced Thorn as he unlocked a room to their left, a short distance from the forge at the back. As they entered, Ambrose was stunned by the sheer luminosity that came from the rows of weapons in there. Each was polished brightly, and the many jewels that adorned them glittered with a light that seemed to come from itself.

After a moment’s thoughts, Thorn selected two rapiers from the lot and handed them to Ambrose. One had a basket inlaid with intricate gold markings and small ruby set in the pommel. The other, which pleased Ambrose tremendously, had a steel blade with a platinum hilt, and a non-marked but nonetheless complex basket. Testing the sword’s balance out, he let out a rare smile.

“What is this fine blade called?” he asked, and was told that it was named the White Fang and cost a mere hundred gold coins.

Surprised, Ambrose said, “I shall take this then, though isn’t a hundred far too low for a blade of such magnitude?”

“Nay milord, I sell my goods at a reasonable price, as I am not a greedy merchant and take pleasure in seeing my weapons in the hands of someone capable,” came the reply.

Satisfied with Thorn’s answer, the two proceeded to the counter where the transaction was completed. After a moment’s hesitation, Ambrose posed the question that had him puzzled earlier.

“May I inquire as to why you possess a suit of your armour in your room? The sword is understandable, but full plate armour?”

Smiling broadly, Thorn ran his hand through his jet black hair, thinking of a suitable reply. “Well Sir Ambrose, while I am an accomplished smith, it is not my first and only profession to be honest. It is a long story that I would not bore you with, but I am in fact a lone knight, though not many know this.

Ambrose could tell that it was the truth just by watching Thorn carefully, but felt that he was suppressing further information which perhaps, was not willing to give out. Nodding in understanding, he said, “Well then Sir Thornshield, perhaps you would accept if I challenged you to a friendly duel?”

Grinning broadly, Thorn nodded slowly. “I accept.”

Chapter 3

As the sun began its descent, its brilliant rays glinted off the steel blades of the two men who now stood facing each other in the grassy field outside the Armoury. One wielded an elaborate rapier in his right, accompanied by a simple parrying dagger in the other. The other however, merely had a lone rapier, but something about his composure made him seem the superior of the two.

“Are you fine with White Fang alone?” asked Thorn, as he stretched his arms and rotated his neck in preparation.

Ambrose nodded slowly and shifted his body perpendicularly to his opponent. Lifting his weapon, he pointed it at Thorn, his left hand spread open by his side in a graceful pose. This stance was not merely for style, but to reduce the target area and was his preferred combat style.

“Shall we begin?” he asked, signalling the start of the duel.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Thorn drew closer, his rapier in front of him, and the dagger at the ready by his side. In truth, he would have been more comfortable in his usual full plate armour, wielding his long sword, but this being a duel, felt that it was necessary to follow suit in the choice of weapons. After all, as an accomplished smith he had to test out his creations, and was versed in most weapons.

As he drew close, he flicked his blade to the right of Ambrose’s head, and was immediately parried. As expected, a counter attack swiftly followed as Ambrose spun his blade in a counter-clockwise half circle and thrust forward at Thorn’s neck. Smiling at his opponent’s finesse, Thorn neatly blocked it and then launched into a flurry of quick swipes, which were either avoided or parried.

Detecting a slight opening, Ambrose deflected the last of the swipes by pushing his opponent’s blade up and to the right, before stepping forward quickly and lunging for the heart. But as he predicted, Thorn brought down his dagger, pushing the blade away. Planning to quickly bring the rapier back up in a diagonal slash, he hadn’t expected what came next. Thorn had focused immense strength on the block, and caused Ambrose to lose balance for a second. But that second was more than enough, as Thorn followed suit with a right knee at his opponent’s head.

Ambrose barely managed to leap back, but as the knee missed, the knight turned smith extended the leg into a sweeping kick, slamming into Ambrose’s side. He fell back a few paces and grimaced in pain, but was glad that he had found a worthy opponent.

Watching as Thorn dropped into a defensive position; Ambrose could not help but note the striking differences between the two of them. Where one was lithe, the other was broad-shouldered and muscular. And while Ambrose excelled in speed and skill, Thorn made up for it with strength and unusual moves.

“I won’t go easy on you this time,” taunted Ambrose with a slight grin. Without waiting for a reply, he rushed forward and thrust his rapier repeatedly at various points. As Thorn blocked the furious attacks with both weapons, he laughed, “And neither shall I.”

Switching roles from attack to defence, the pair clashed repeatedly, with neither landing any major blows. The duel continued for at least another five minutes, and by this time, the two were soaked in sweat, as the hot sun beat upon them.

Finally, as Ambrose thrust forward with a relatively slow attack, Thorn took the opportunity and parried it to his left with all his strength. Ambrose’s arm swung back from the blow and his body turned away from his usual position, exposing a larger area.

“This is it!” proclaimed Thorn confidently as he drew back his rapier and lunged forward. Ambrose however, smiled to himself as his previous attack was merely a feint and had planned to use a different attack on Thorn this time. Just as the blade was reaching its target, he ducked down quickly and lowering himself to the ground, executed a sweeping roundhouse kick.

The plan succeeded brilliantly and Thorn was tripped, falling to the ground with a resounding thud. Crowing in triumph, Ambrose stepped forward and pointed White Fang’s keen blade at Thorn’s surprised face, mere inches away.

With victory decided, Ambrose offered his hand, and Thorn began laughing heartily as he was helped up. “I never expected a swashbuckler like you to use such a trick,” he admitted with a broad smile, “Well done good sir, well done.”

“And the same to you,” replied Ambrose, as he watched Thorn brush grass off his clothing. Noticing he had spent far too long here, he added, “Well then, I should take my leave, but it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“And a pleasure meeting you too Sir Ambrose,” said Thorn with a smile.

“If I ever need a new blade, I shall turn to you, for this rapier is absolutely magnificent,” promised Ambrose, “Till then, fare thee well Sir Thornshield.”

“Thorn would suffice milord,” said Thorn, as he bowed deeply, “And may you have a safe journey. Farewell.”

“Ah, Thorn it is then, provided you drop the formalities as well,” said Ambrose, as he bowed in return before taking his leave.

Nodding to himself, Thorn watched as the other left. It was a good fight indeed, he said to himself, and hoped that Ambrose would visit again in the future. Picking up his weapons, he then walked back to the armoury with a smile on his face and a bruise on his back.

Chapter 4

As the first rays of light began to stream into the armoury, Thorn flipped through a letter as he sat by the bed on a wooden stool. Reading it to himself for the umpteenth time, his eyes darted occasionally at the unconscious Ambrose, worried for his health. It seemed that he was covered in multiple sword wounds all over his body and had lost a lot of blood by the time he reached his place. It was a miracle that he was still alive.

Glancing back at the letter, it read;

Dear Thorn,

I trust that you are in good health and the business is thriving as always. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for myself. The family manor has been broken into about a month ago and the servants were found brutally mutilated. My father and brother were away at the time and I was on an errand for the city. We have not found the culprit yet.

Since then, we have moved out to our countryside mansion, for we fear someone is after the family. I disagreed with this however, as I felt that we were capable enough of fending off any intruders, but my views were quickly dismissed by my brother.

Coming to the main purpose of this letter, I would like to request a new rapier from you. Although White Fang still serves me well, I have witnessed the work of custom-weapons in action and am impressed. It is indeed true that a weapon performs better if it’s in synch with the wielder. And of course, I would only turn to you for such a task, and I hope you consider it. I would pay you handsomely indeed, although we both know that’s not what would inspire you.

Till then, I await a favourable response.

Your friend,

Ambrose Maurlias

Just as he was near the end, Thorn heard Ambrose stirring. This was followed by coughing and Thorn turned quickly to catch Ambrose regaining consciousness, his eyes slowly opening.

“Are you alright?” asked Thorn, peering over him.

Ambrose was about to nod, when a wrack of pain surged through him. Grimacing, he then shook his head and attempted a smile. “How long was I out?”

“It’s been a whole day and several hours since that night,” said Thorn matter-of-factly. “Your wounds were so serious, you were lucky that you didn’t die from the lack of blood.”

Ambrose kept silent and looked down at his bandaged body.

“What happened exactly?” asked Thorn curiously.

After a moment’s pause, Ambrose replied, “I was attacked…by hunters.”

“Hunters?” asked the smith, “Do you have a bounty on your head?”

To that Ambrose kept quiet and merely shrugged. Nodding in understanding, Thorn said in hushed tones, “Understood, we all have our own secrets.”

Changing the subject immediately, Thorn announced that he had completed the custom weapon. At the mere mention of it, Ambrose’s blue eyes lit up and he quickly asked, “May I see it?”

Laughing at his enthusiasm, Thorn nodded and went to fetch it from the store room. Returning a moment later, he handed it to Ambrose hilt first. Accepting it eagerly, he studied it carefully, his fingers tracing patterns over the sword in loving strokes.

Words could not describe its beauty. Its blade was enchanted-steel, tinged light blue and had a fancier basket than White Fang, the metal strips shining with a pure white glow. Testing the handle, its grip fit perfectly and he now understood why Thorn had asked for his palm’s measurements. Moving further down, a brilliant sapphire was set in the pommel, seemingly pulsating with life.

“I-It’s superb,” Ambrose breathed after admiring it for long enough.

“Glad you like it. Its name is…” said Thorn, pausing for added effect, “Hyperion.”

“Hyperion…” Ambrose tested the name, rolling it off his tongue several times to find it to his liking.

Continuing, Thorn pointed out more details regarding the weapon, “There’s a Rune of Strengthening magically carved into the blade near the hilt. It enables the wielder to strike with more force. I chose that specifically to complement your speed.”

Smiling in appreciation, Ambrose reached out and clasped Thorn’s hand in a firm handshake. “Thank you Thorn, I am greatly indebted to you.”

Squeezing Ambrose’s hand once with a smile, Thorn shook his head, “Anything for a friend. Now then, you should get more rest and perhaps some food. I’ll prepare some soup.”

“Food sounds good,” admitted Ambrose, returning the smile.

Then as Thorn stood up to prepare breakfast, Ambrose added with a puzzled look on his face, “Though I’m having a strange craving for steak instead.”

Chapter 5

“Well Thorn, I guess I should take my leave,” said Ambrose, as he grasped Thorn’s hand in a firm handshake. It had been slightly less than a week and yet his wounds had healed completely. “And thank you for the clothes as well,” he added.

Thorn smiled warmly as he returned the handshake. He had given Ambrose a set of new threads, since Ambrose’s clothing was beyond the point of repair. All he had that was unscathed was the wooden pendant that he always wore.

“And I apologise for the loss of White Fang, but do not fear, I promise I would treasure Hyperion with my life,” continued Ambrose.

“No worries my friend, as long as it isn’t your life that’s lost. I bid you farewell Ambrose,” replied Thorn, bowing slightly as he was accustomed to.

Returning the bow, Ambrose bid Thorn farewell and walked out the door, the sun streaming upon his blue and white clothes, chosen well by Thorn. As he walked away from the armoury proudly, Thorn smiled and flipped around a sign hanging by the window, the words ‘OPEN’ displayed outside. It would be a good day for business as usual.

~ < ¤ > ~

As the evening sun was about to set and Thorn was closing the store for the day, a man swathed in elegant clothes with a dark green cloak flowing about him stepped into the store, coughing softly to signal his presence. The smith studied him for a moment, noting the air of arrogance he detected from the man. Minding his manners, Thorn smiled nonetheless and greeted him.

“Good evening sir, I’m afraid I’m about to close the Armoury for the night. However, is there any quick requests that I can help you with?” he asked politely.

The newcomer sniffed haughtily as he surveyed the goods around him, taking a step closer to Thorn. Without a word, he suddenly drew the sword by his side and lunged at the startled store owner.

Breathing in sharply, Thorn reached out for the nearest weapon on display, a quarterstaff, and parried the blade. This did not stop the other person, who launched into a flurry of quick slashes. Grabbing the staff with both hands, Thorn blocked them all and detecting a pause in the onslaught, swung the staff with all his might at the other’s sword hand.

The blow struck true, knocking the sword into the air. “Who are you to attack me in my own store?” asked Thorn loudly, glaring at the attacker as the sword fell to the ground, tip first.

Unexpectedly, the stranger straightened and began clapping, though his gloved hands hardly made any noise. “Well done Sir Thorn,” he spoke, “I see the rumours are true.”

“Who are you?” queried Thorn, raising an eyebrow.

Clearing his throat, the person announced proudly, “I am Sir Dreu Maurlias and I, or more exactly, the townsfolk of Ashenvale, need your combat prowess in defeating a monstrosity plaguing the town.”

Thorn’s eyes widened at the name and asked, “You are Ambrose’s brother?”

“Elder brother to be exact and heir to the family’s worldly possessions,” confirmed Dreu proudly as he picked up his weapon, sheathing it by his side.

“So what is this about a monstrosity?” asked Thorn, replacing the quarterstaff.

“You see, the town has been under attack by what we assume is a werewolf, and I have been entrusted with the task of assembling a group of warriors to hunt it down,” explained Dreu, “I would have asked my brother to join the hunt but he seems to have gone missing. Perhaps the foolish boy has been killed by the werewolf or worse still, ran away with his tail wagging between his feet.”

Frowning, Thorn shook his head. “I’m sure Ambrose would not do such a thing,” he vouched for his friend. It had been several weeks since Ambrose had recovered. Thinking for a moment, he then said, “But in any case, I shall lend you my sword arm. When are we embarking on this hunt?”

“Tomorrow evening, we are meeting at the guard post,” said Dreu briefly, before turning on his heel. “I shall see you then.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked out of the Armoury, cloak billowing behind him. Thorn shook his head in disgust and closed up the store, before heading to his room to prepare for the next day.

Chapter 6

As the full moon shone overhead in the starless sky, a group of people were gathered in front of an old mansion, the rooms within completely shrouded in darkness. This had been the manor of the Maurlias family, the very one that was broken into long ago. A gust of bone-chilling wind came from the north, and Thorn shivered, despite having thick leather beneath the chain mail he wore.

“Listen up everyone,” announced Dreu who was at the head of the party, “The creature that we are pursuing is said to be hiding somewhere within the building. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t the same one that attacked our servants that night.”

“Alright, we’re going to split into several teams, I will be leading the first, and will sweep the left wing, whereas Marius shall search the right. And Thorn, you’re in charge of the cellars.”

As the people began splitting up, Thorn quickly stepped by Dreu’s side and asked, “If it really is a werewolf that we are hunting, would it not change back to human form if the moon’s rays were obscured?”

Dreu laughed and shook his head. “Apparently you have never fought one before. They remain in wolf form during the full moon period, and during then, would only revert back if they are severely weakened,” he explained.

Nodding in understanding, Thorn adjusted his gear and promptly led his group into the mansion behind the other two. Each group had about six men each, including the leader, and they were all armed to the teeth.

As they began descending down the stairs to the cellar, their path lit by the flames of torches, Thorn sensed the movement of something large below. Signalling for the torchbearer to stay by his side, he inched forward, the rest of his men closely behind him. As they entered the wine cellar, a large cavernous room filled with hundreds of wine bottles, a member of his party let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Thorn whirled behind and was promptly knocked down as a body was flung upon him. Looking up quickly, a large menacing creature stood on two legs in front of them, its large claws soaked in blood and saliva dripping from its fangs. Its form was unmistakeable, it was the werewolf! Before Thorn could get up, the monster leapt at the nearest man, slashing and ripping him into pieces.

“Hurry and attack it!” Thorn shouted, pushing the body off him, only to witness the werewolf shrug off attacks easily, killing another two in quick succession. Getting up, he rushed for the creature and swung his blade with all his might, a battle cry on his lips. The blade bit deep into the werewolf’s arm, and it roared in pain.

Suddenly, he was thrown back as the lupine creature swung its arm outwards, dislodging Thorn’s blade from its wound. The wolf then pounced for the torchbearer, and sunk its fangs deep into the man’s shoulder, then ripped away a chunk of his flesh in a splatter of blood and gore. Before the man could even scream in pain, the werewolf severed his vocal cords with a quick slash to the throat.

Thorn watched as the torch fell to the ground, still burning, as the body of his comrade went limp. He was alone now, and was hoping the rest of the hunters would have heard the commotion by now. Staring face to face at the wolf, his vision blurred by anger and bloodlust, Thorn failed to notice the remnants of clothing hanging on the creature and a pendant hanging about its neck.

All he saw was its wounds healing at a remarkable rate, as it slowly stepped towards him. It licked the blood off its claws and howled, ready to pounce. Before it could do so, Thorn had rushed forward, blade at his side and a look of determination in his eye. As the werewolf brought its claws down in a ferocious swipe, Thorn sidestepped quickly, and slashed out in a horizontal motion.

As the blade sliced through flesh and fur, he continued his assault. Stepping behind the creature, Thorn spun around to face it and cleaved downwards at the creature’s back. The werewolf howled in anguish as the blade sliced into its left shoulder and suddenly swung around. Its massive left arm caught Thorn in the face, and he was flung back several metres, smashing to the stone floor with a sickening thud.

Thorn shook his head groggily, as the dull beat of pain coursed through his body. As he spat out blood and loose teeth, he realised something that could be his downfall; he had lost hold of his sword! Struggling to get up, he was immediately hit by the wolf’s claws in the chest, chain mail giving way as though it was flesh.

Instinctively, Thorn rolled away, dodging the attacks with all the strength left within him. As he continued rolling away from the werewolf, he suddenly felt a metallic object at his side. Could this be a weapon? he thought frantically, before the shadow of the creature loomed above him.

With the last vestiges of his energy, Thorn grabbed at the object and indeed it was the hilt of a sword. As the wolf leapt above him, ready to devour, he thrust it outwards and up, his eyes shut tightly in a last ditch effort.

As the sickening sound of flesh being pierced filled the air, Thorn opened his eyes slowly. The first thing he saw was the weapon he held in his hands, its blue blade shining despite the lack of light.

“H-Hyperion,” he stammered. “You killed Ambrose too?!” he shouted at the werewolf, looking up and staring straight into amber eyes. Then he realised that the creature had been impaled upon the rapier’s blade and he had been fortunate enough to survive this encounter.

Mustering his strength, Thorn twisted the blade and the werewolf shuddered, letting out another howl of pain. As the creature began to struggle, he plunged the blade deeper, till Hyperion’s basket touched skin. At that point, the werewolf went limp, and its arms fell to its sides.

Breathing heavily, Thorn pushed the beast away from him and got up slowly. Then, as his blood-red vision cleared, he noticed the pendant around its neck. Eyes widening, he then recognised shades of blue and white upon the tattered cloth still clinging upon the creature’s body.

“No…it cannot be,” he uttered, stepping back unsteadily.

A cough then came from the werewolf, and its whole body convulsed as fur receded and it shrunk in size. Amber eyes turned to blue and soon a man lay in its place, long blonde hair strewn upon the floor.

Thorn rushed forward at this alarming sight, and knelt by the person’s side. There was no mistaking it, it was Ambrose. “I didn’t know…” was all Thorn could utter, as the sound of heavy footsteps came from the stairwell behind him.

Ambrose shook his head, knowing that it was the end for him, and said, “I-it wasn’t your fault…” Coughing up blood, he struggled to continue, “I was to blame…I had no control of…myself.”

Despite Dreu calling out from the cellar entrance, Thorn could only hear his dying friend’s words, still in shock at the turn of events. How could he have missed the signs? Why didn’t Ambrose tell him? However, his thoughts were interrupted as Ambrose coughed once more.

Shutting his eyes as his body went still; Ambrose took his final breath and with it spoke his final words.

“I’m sorry…my friend.”

Epilogue

Ambrose stirred from his slumber and sat up in bed. Looking to his right, he smiled at the sight of his beautiful wife beside him, comfortably sleeping under the satin duvet. As he stroked her hair gently, she opened her eyes one at a time and he greeted her with a kiss.

“I had the weirdest dream,” he uttered.

“Oh?” she questioned, her voice barely a whisper.

“I can’t remember the details clearly, but…I think I was still unable to control myself during the transformation period. And…I believe I was killed,” he said with a puzzled look on his face.

“Go back to sleep silly, it’s far too early to be pondering such dreams,” said Angelina, plopping her face into her pillow.

He laughed, for sunlight was already streaming in through the curtains. He was about to argue with her when someone knocked on the door.

“Father? There’s a package for you,” called out a voice that was unmistakeably his son.

Deciding to let his lovely wife sleep in, Ambrose got up and dressed quickly. Walking out of his bedroom and into the dining hall, he noticed a wrapped rectangular parcel upon the table, with a sealed letter on top.

Curious, he picked up the letter and broke the seal. It was written in French and he read it to himself.

Sir Ambrose Maurlias,

Your heroics and deeds have been spread across the land of England and it is an honour for me if you are reading this.

On behalf of my countrymen, I would like to present to you this gift and I hope it is to your liking.

Think of it as a form of thanks for all the things you have done.

With utter respect,

Le Bouclier D'Épine

Surprised at the letter’s contents, Ambrose carefully opened the package. Its contents astonished him even further. The package revealed a magnificent rapier; one with a pure white basket and a light metallic-blue blade, elegantly decorated with a sapphire in the pommel.

Ambrose rubbed his eyes in disbelief and stared at the weapon in front of him. There was no mistaking it.

It was the Hyperion.