The Last of the True Blades

They told me the blade was safer behind stone.

Safer behind wards layered like winter frost. Safer beneath sigils etched so deep into the vault walls that even light bent around them.

They said no one man should carry what the blade hungered for.

They were right.

Spellbane did not gleam when I first saw it. It did not hum or flare or promise glory. It lay on its plinth of black granite like a thing long asleep—steel dark as wet ash, edge almost invisible in the dim vault light.

Only the air around it felt wrong.

Magic in that chamber moved like smoke in a sealed jar—slow, unsettled, circling without escape.

“Observe,” the High Arcanist had said, raising a cautious hand. A filament of blue light leapt from his palm—no more than a testing thread.

It never reached the blade.

Halfway across the chamber, it faltered.

Then it snapped inward.

The steel drank it.

Not violently. Not greedily. Simply… completely.

The glow faded into the metal’s grain as though it had always belonged there.

“That,” the Arcanist had whispered, “is why it remains here.”

Spellbane was forged in an age when magic did not merely adorn war—it drowned it. Enchantments thickened the sky. Spells turned battlefields into glass. The old chronicles speak of armies devoured by their own brilliance.

So someone made a blade that said no.

Not a counterspell. Not a ward.

A negation.

I stood before it longer than the others were comfortable with.

“You feel it, don’t you?” one of the wardens murmured.

I did.

Not a call. Not a whisper.

A lack.

In a world where every blade was etched, every banner glamoured, every breath laced with charm or curse—Spellbane was absence made steel.

They sealed the vault that day, satisfied.

I returned three nights later.

Not for glory. Not for rebellion.

For silence.

The war had already begun to turn against us. Mages dueled above cities until towers collapsed under the weight of their brilliance. Fields smoldered with lingering hexes. Children were born with sparks in their lungs that choked them before their first cry.

I had watched a regiment of good soldiers burn from the inside when a spell meant to shield them fed on itself.

Magic had grown too loud.

The vault wards parted for me only because I knew their pattern. I had helped design them.

Spellbane lay where I had left it.

Unadorned. Unimpressed.

When I wrapped my hand around the hilt, the chamber shifted.

The wards dimmed.

Not failed—dimmed. Their intricate geometry softened as if exhaling.

The blade was heavier than I expected. Not in weight.

In consequence.

I left the vault open.

They called me traitor before dawn. Exile by midday. By nightfall, my name was spoken only in accusation.

Conray the Exile.

They never asked why the skies above the western front went dark that same week.

They never saw the way enemy sorcery guttered when I stepped onto the field. How lightning bent toward my blade and vanished. How curses unraveled mid-utterance. How enchantments collapsed like tents with their poles kicked free.

Spellbane does not blaze.

It consumes.

Every spell that strikes it feeds the steel, deepening the black sheen along its edge. The more they throw at me, the stronger it becomes.

But there is a cost.

The blade does not choose between hostile magic and friendly. Stand too close when your ally weaves, and you will feel the tug. Hold a charm near me, and it will flicker out like a candle in wind.

I have learned to fight alone.

Tonight I sit beyond the reach of any city’s glow. Spellbane rests across my knees, quiet in the starlight. Around me, the air is still—untainted by drifting enchantment, untouched by lingering hex.

For the first time in years, I can hear insects in the grass.

They call me exile as though it were punishment.

They do not understand.

Someone must carry the silence.

And I was the only one willing to take it from the vault.