Randal groaned, shifting against the jagged ground beneath him. The rocks felt like they were conspiring to stab his back in all the worst places. "Man, I wish I could get some food…" He pressed a hand to his stomach, which growled in agreement. "A nice roasted chicken. Maybe some stew. Heck, I'd even settle for stale bread at this point."
He looked around the barren landscape, rolling his eyes at the crooked trees and dry grass that surrounded him. "And this place doesn't seem to be doing me any favors," he muttered, brushing a pebble off his sleeve. "Not a single berry bush. Not even a rabbit to glare at and feel morally conflicted about eating. Fantastic."
The city of Duran shined in the distance, its tall spires mocking him. "So close, yet so far. I'd be there already if that old guy hadn't started screaming about 'The Harbinger! The Endbringer!' like I was about to set fire to his beard."
He closed his eyes, letting out another sigh. "All because of some dumb prophecy. 'Oh, the sword has chosen you!' they said. 'You're destined to destroy the world!' they said." He waved his hands theatrically. "Yeah, great. Super inspiring. So inspiring that they'd probably murder their own family if that stupid oracle told them to."
Randal sat up, rubbing his neck with a grimace. "You know, it'd be nice if destiny came with free food vouchers. Or at least a map with 'safe places for cursed villains' marked on it." His stomach growled again. "Ugh. I guess I'll keep walking. Maybe if I'm lucky, some merchant caravan will pass by, and I can charm my way into a loaf of bread."
He stood, dusting himself off, and adjusted the tattered cloak draped over his shoulders. "Just gotta avoid the pitchfork mob this time. Easy peasy."
Randal trudged along the dusty path, his boots kicking up small clouds of dirt with each step. The distant city of Duran loomed ever larger, its towering spires now beginning to glint in the late afternoon sun. He'd heard it was a city of opportunity, bustling with trade and filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread and grilled meats. To Randal, it smelled like hope. Or it would have, if his stomach wasn't so empty that he was starting to hallucinate smells.
As he rounded a bend, something caught his eye—a faint glint of metal lying in the grass. He squinted. His pace slowed. There, half-buried in the dirt and weeds, was a sword. A familiar sword.
"Gosh dang it." He stopped in his tracks, glaring at the weapon like it had personally insulted him. "It's that dumb sword again." He let out another dramatic sigh, running his hand down his face. "How does it keep finding me?"
The sword didn't respond, of course. It just sat there, its dark, hilt gleaming in the sunlight. The blade seemed almost too clean for something that had been lying in a ditch, as if it defied the very laws of dirt and grime.
Randal crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the weapon. "Look, I already said no. Like, fifty times. I don't know if you have ears, but whatever spooky magic you're packing, use it to go haunt someone else."
The sword remained stubbornly silent. It gave off a faint hum, like it was offended.
"Oh, don't you start." Randal groaned, glancing around to make sure no one was watching him talk to inanimate objects. The last thing he needed was someone deciding he was crazy and cursed. He crouched down, jabbing a finger toward the hilt. "You think just because you've got a fancy name and a spooky prophecy, I'm going to pick you up again? Here's the thing, Inanis, you're more trouble than you're worth."
He stood, brushing off his hands as if that settled the matter, and started walking away.
A soft pulse of energy rippled through the air, tugging at his senses like an invisible string. Randal froze mid-step. His shoulders slumped. "Oh, come on…" he muttered, turning back toward the sword.
It hadn't moved—of course it hadn't—but there was something about the way it just sat there, radiating an air of smug inevitability, that made his blood boil.
"You're like a stray dog," he grumbled, stomping back over. "Except worse. Dogs don't ruin your life with prophecies and creepy magical powers! I'd prefer a dog over some haunted sword, actually." He leaned down, glaring at the blade as if it could understand him. "Fine! I'll pick you up. But only because I don't want some random bandit grabbing you and starting an apocalypse. Again. You better contribute so we don't starve. Oh right you're just a sword, you can't feel hunger. I might be going insane.."
With a resigned groan, Randal grabbed the hilt of Inanis. As his fingers wrapped around it, the blade pulsed warmly in his grip, like it was smugly thanking him.
"Oh, shut up," he muttered. "This doesn't mean we're friends. Hopefully I can get rid of you one day.."
The sword hummed in response, almost as if it were laughing.
Randal trudged onward, the city of Duran a little closer but still frustratingly far. Inanis, now tied to his back with a frayed leather strap, weighed on him like a guilty conscience. Or a really heavy sack of bad decisions.
"You're quite heavy for an apocalyptic sword," he muttered. "My back's hurting because of you."
The blade, unsurprisingly, said nothing.
Randal sighed, adjusting the sword's strap. "I don't even know where we're heading. You're supposed to be the creepy magical artifact with all the answers, right? Do your job and guide me or something."
The sword let out a faint hum, like a whisper on the wind.
"...Yeah, that's what I thought," Randal said, kicking a pebble down the path. "Silent treatment. Real helpful."
As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Randal's grumbling filled the air, accompanied by the faint, unshakable hum of Inanis on his back. Somewhere, beyond the distant city spires. For now, though, Randal just wanted dinner. "I wonder if swords are edible…"
Then he heard low growling coming from the bushes.
The hairs on the back of Randal's neck prickled, and he froze for a moment, his pulse quickening. The growling grew louder, more menacing. Randal smirked, feeling the familiar pang of hunger gnaw at his stomach. "You know what this means, Inanis?" he chuckled, his lips turned to a grin. "It's potential food."
Without another thought, he unslung the sword and gripped its hilt firmly, feeling its pulse against his palm. "Dinner time," he muttered, stepping forward.
His boots crunched on the dry earth, the anticipation building in his chest. But just before he reached the bushes, the growling stopped.
Randal paused mid-step, his heart racing. Silence followed.
The bushes rustled again, and something large moved within.
Randal's grin faltered. "Or... it's potential trouble."
A shadow shifted in the underbrush, and before Randal could react, something leaped toward him with a terrifying speed.