The moment he stepped outside the cave, it felt as if the jungle swallowed him.
The hot, wet air enveloped him, becoming a second skin clinging to his body.
The sun golden shine on the blades of leafs around.
He kept going, stepping inside with moss-covered roots and ducking beneath weeping vines.
Insect now lay departing between his head, some monkeys ahead screeching.
Finally, he came across an old narrow trail long unmarked by anyone but him. Among those who traveled it, it a bonded, rejected and not even the hunters seemed to use it anymore.
Aren reached a clearing just short of noon; what lay there was the ruin of a broken stone shrine, covered in vines. He crouched down, tracing moss-covered carvings with his fingers.
His thoughts wandered to nights spent under the moon with Amira, her laughter, and her bright eyes speaking of freedom and power.
He grinned his teeth. "Enough": he shook his head, trying to shake off the memories.
He tore a piece from his cloak and wiped his face. With each stroke, dirt was carried away; with each stroke, the last remains of gentleness within him were wiped out, leaving only razor edges and steel.
Then, he started going faster. And everything aligned in his mind: tunnels underneath the palace of Zehara, hidden passages free of patrol by the east watchtower, side gates maintained by slack guards who would be the last to expect him. He knew that city better than most men in there.
He wouldn't come crashing through like a wild animal. No-he would slip in so quietly that no one would hear him. By the time he struck, there would be no noise in the city to tell of him.
When darkness covered the sky, an old watch found among the
snaky roots of a giant tree welcomed Aren. He entered and collapsed on the floor, panting.
He tore open his bag and eagerly wolfed down some dried meat, every bite reminding him how near he had come to loosing it all: his life, his freedom, his laughter.
He propped himself against the dam wooden wall with his eyes closed, but sleep wouldn't come. Amira was there again in his mind, the last time she gazed in his eyes before betrayal.
Whispers-soft voice, gentle touch, all lies. Ropes. Guards. The taste of his blood.
Aren opened his eyes, disturbed. He rose from the ground and approached a small mirror, cracked and set at an awkward angle on the wall.
The face that gazed back was thin and bruised. But deep in his gut remained a flicker of lighting.
"Are you still in there?" he whispered, tilting his head to await a reply.
The mirror stayed mute until a hint of an immovable smirk graced his lips.
A quiet chuckle remained suspended in the soot of the hut.
Then something caught his eye; the dagger was in a corner of the hut, half buried in leaves and dust. The handle bore bizarre blue markings that glowed faintly in the dark.
Aren picked it up, and it answered his curiosity.
The second he touched it, a voice reverberated in his head.
"Finally...a hand worthy enough to wake me." Aren almost dropped it. His eyes darted around the room, but no one was there.
"You...can talk?" he asked in surprise.
"I could do much more than talk," the dagger said in a deep smooth tone laced with evident mirth. "I am The Smiling Sword. At present, I repose in this form. With a mere thought or one click, I can become a sword, a spear... whatever you wish to cut through your enemies.
Aren's breath got stuck somewhere in his throat. His gaze flicked back and forth between the blade and his old dagger on the floor.
"You made your mistake coming to the wrong jungle," he snorted. "As for me, I don't even know how to use you."
"That is why I chose you," drawled the dagger, "because you are still unshaped...wild...anoint of true Laughing Blade."
Aren shook his head, still half-grinning. Tucking the glowing dagger into his belt beside the old one, he said,
"Not tonight. I don't even know your real hunger yet."
"When you are ready... just call," the voice whispered inside his head. "And remember: a smile cuts deeper than any blade."
Aren shivered but felt something live stir light inside him. One last look back at the mirror: his eyes were tired but burning bright.
Now dawn has come, the golden rays just trickling through the trees were softer, sharper, and more alive, as Aren stepped out with the new dagger safely concealed under his cloak.
He straightened his cloak, checked his old dagger, and set his gaze on Zehara far in the distance, her towers glimmering like a promise beneath the sun of the morn.
Aren narrowed his eyes.
"Wait for me, princess," he said, steel sharp and calm. "Your Laughing Blade is coming home. This time he is not laughing for you."
Turning, he began to walk. With every step a drumbeat sounded; a promise and a warning all at once.
Above, the vines murmured and rustled . Birds cawed and flitted by into buttonhole rays of light.
Deep down, far beneath all the rage and pain, the faintest flicker of warmth remained; a soft echo of who he had once been. But it was warmth placed deep down and locked behind iron walls.
By nightfall, he would reach the gates of Zehara. By moonrise, the kingdom would remember his name.
Because with each step he took, the whole world held its breath.
This time, the Laughing Blade had come to collect on every broken promise and every stolen laugh.