Arkan couldn't go back to his room immediately, not with all of this confusion on his head. Instead, he stood perfectly still in the quiet, dim corridor outside the Khan's quarters. The wooden case tucked beneath his arm felt heavier than it should have. It wasn't just the weight of the wood and the steel, but the weight of the history inside it.
The guards stationed nearby kept their distance. They all understood there were moments when a man like Arkan was not to be disturbed. Tonight was clearly one of those moments.
A sword was not supposed to feel like this.
Arkan had carried weapons his entire life. He knew the balance of a blade like he knew the lines on his own palm. He knew the difference between a sword forged for a parade and a sword forged to kill. Which blades were meant to threaten an enemy, and which were meant to end a life quickly and silently.
But this sword was different.
