The black blade pulsed with an unnatural energy in Shadow's hands as he carried it back to the fortress. Though its craftsmanship was exquisite, its weight felt heavier than steel. The whispers that had begun in his dreams followed him now, faint and elusive, like voices carried on the wind.
Sir Aldric noticed the blade immediately. "Where did you find that?" he asked, his tone sharp.
"In the ruins near the border," Shadow replied, keeping his voice steady.
Aldric's eyes darkened. "That sword belongs to a forgotten age. Weapons like that often carry more than just a sharp edge. Be wary, Shadow."
Despite Aldric's warning, Shadow found it difficult to part with the blade. It felt as though it had chosen him, as though it was a part of his destiny. Yet at night, the whispers grew louder, speaking of betrayal and darkness.
One night, Alaric confronted him. "That sword—it's changing you. You've been more distant, more... restless."
Shadow dismissed his friend's concerns, though doubt gnawed at him.