The moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room and painting it in a ghostly hue. It fell upon the rugged furniture in the motel room and the slumbering figure nestled beneath the silken sheets, highlighting the lines of sorrow upon the face of the mortal. The bustling city streets, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional siren faded into obscurity, replaced by serene tranquillity.
Luciano brushed his fingertips along the smooth, jet black blade of the sword, feeling its power hum beneath his touch. Shadowrend, named after the ancient spirit that the reaper trapped in the weapon. It was forged in the depths of the abyss. Its spectral whispers filled his mind, trying to corrupt him to feed the living, sentient thing by doing unfathomable evil.
He shrugged her tempting words off.
Only a mortal would fall at the allure of unleashing his wrath upon his enemies.
