Once, beneath a sky that cycled evenly between night and day, within a valley untouched by the mists of lost souls or the scourge of undead, sat the town of D’lorn. A lively place, it boasted a river of crystalline water that flowed from its northern mountains and a grand mansion that crowned its central plaza. Each morning, housewives would wash their laundry by the river—well-worn tunics, and beige gowns—and their gossipy chatter or their children’s laughter not far off would ride the languid breeze to the mansion’s doors. By noon, the gruffer laughter of their husbands and the other adventurers could be heard, interspersed with the songs of cicadas and birds.

  “Ah, and this, my son, is the peace we fight to protect.”

  The speaker had a hulking presence. A magnificent mane of red hair crowned his scalp, and he stood in the mansion’s foyer, hands on his hips, facing the breeze through the open doors. “You see, son,” he continued, “those born to a higher station, those born with power, we have a duty to protect—”

  “My lord…” A nursemaid stood primly and respectfully behind him, “I’m afraid he’s no longer listening.”

  “Oh.”

  The son the man had addressed so endearingly had not been listening from the start. He crawled on four legs across the carpeted room to a display case against the far wall. Blanketed in clear glass, it was rectangular and as tall as the hulking man himself. The toddler’s grubby hand barely touched an eighth of its height, small as he was.

  But small or not, there was something special about the boy; a transformative spark in his soul. And when he gazed upon the armor inside that display case, his eyes sparked alight for the first time.

  The nursemaid quickly scooped the boy into her arms, and like a word forgotten just after being spoken, that light vanished, leaving only a small print on the glass where his hand had been.

  “She’s quite a specimen, isn’t she, son?”

  Lionheart walked up beside the maid. He opened the display case, tender fingers caressing the suit of armor, which fitted perfectly to his frame. A tired warmth filled his eyes as he reminisced.

  “She was gifted to me by King Eldiwin, alongside our Barony. A decorative piece forged with pure Oslumnen. A precious material, but it won’t hold properly against an enemy blade. It’s meant to symbolize that I’ve fulfilled my service as His Highness’s sword.”

  A pregnant silence followed as he trailed off, but the small boy’s eyes never left the suit of armor.

  “...Osummim”

  Lionheart frowned at the word, repeating it as though deciphering its taste. Then he snapped his head to the side, finding astonishment reflected in his maid’s eyes.

  “I’ll go fetch Lady Sylvia Immediately,” she said.

  “Yes, please. Tell her that our son—that Lucius has just spoken his first word!”

  * * *

  “Lucius!” Sylvia screamed some years later.

  She stormed through the foyer in a fury, and after a heated exchange with a maid, they both left in search of the boy. Only once they had gone could the shallow breathing pattern be heard, followed by a sigh of relief.

  “They’re gone,” the boy remarked to no one in particular. “Lord… I’m going to be in so much trouble when they find me. Shouldn’t have played with Father’s sword like that…”

  He stepped out from behind the display case, taller now than as a toddler, his height equal to the armor’s waist level. His shoulders were broader, his red hair longer—as was family tradition—and he had the frame of a twelve-year-old, though he was only seven.

  “Thanks,” he smiled to the armor. “You protected me.”

  He turned to walk away but halted when a girl appeared from the opposite corridor with a bucket of liquid. When she saw him, she nearly dropped the bucket.

  “Young Master—!” she stammered. “The Baroness was… let me go get her!”

  “Wait!”

  Lucius grabbed the girl by her arm. White appeared on her flesh, and he quickly yanked his hand back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t recognize you. What’s your name?”

  “I-It’s Lyla, Young Master. I started here a week ago under the head housemaid.” She tried to curtsy, cloth rag and duster in one hand, bucket in the other. Liquid splashed over its lip onto fine carpet.

  “Just… Lucius is fine. Here to polish the armor?”

  “Yes, Young Mas—I mean—right. She wants it done once every day.”

  “Once a day? Isn’t that a lot?”

  “I…”

  “Here,” he grabbed the bucket from her, “how about I do it for you? Once a day for the next month, and you don’t tell Mother where I am. Does that sound okay?”

  “I… yes. As you wish, Lucius.”

  Alone again, the boy took the bucket to the display case and turned the key he’d been handed in its lock. The armor, which had never been worn, had a purple-black sheen that was magnetizing. Its surface was smooth to the touch.

  “Once a day… Father really treasures you, doesn’t he?”

  He stood there with the display open as if transfixed, then quickly dusted the armor before wiping its surface. He had to stretch to reach the breastplate, and couldn’t reach the helm, but it already shone like glass.

  A thought must’ve struck him then. Instead of leaving, he suddenly switched the hum of his tune and dragged a plush table until it stood before the display. He climbed on it, teetering as he nearly knocked over a vase of his mother’s flowers.

  “Father’s never worn you, has he?” he muttered. “But… so shiny. I bet if war were to break out he’d look…”

  The boy in the display’s reflection grew taller as he found his balance. Taller still, until reflected in the armor, was another boy. Another man. The spitting image of his father, the knight he would one day be.

  “Lucius? What are you doing?”

  The voice came hard and stern in a way it rarely did. Lucius leaped back, knocking over with the vase in his hurry.

  “First, I hear you have borrowed my sword, and this?”

  Lionheart approached, and from where his son sat in a mess of shattered clay and his mother’s favorite flowers, his father must’ve seemed twice the hulking giant that he was. Sitting to be level with his boy, he sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Lucius. Do you wish to become a knight?”

  The word was like a light switch for the boy. “Yes! I want to serve King Eldiwin! The way you did. I could be His Highness’s greatest sword!”

  The boy seemed to take his father’s silence as a cue for further argument. “You already sent Deitan to the knighthood,” he said, “and he’s only a year older. Send me too!”

  “And how would that affect your mother?” Lionheart asked. “To lose both her boys to the capital within a year? I understand how you feel, son, but I will not send you.”

  Lionheart raised his hand, stopping whatever rebuttal was on the boy’s tongue. “Do you truly wish to serve His Highness?”

  “Yes? Of course, I do!”

  “Then becoming a knight is not the best way to do so.”

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  Indignation flared in the young boy’s eyes, but his father smiled as he pulled him to his feet.

  “Do you know why I was given this armor, Lucius?”

  “Of course I do! Oslumnen armor is the highest honor known to man.”

  “And despite its inherent weakness, do you know why it’s the highest honor?”

  “I…”

  Lionheart chuckled. “If you’re too young even for symbolism, my boy, then forget being a knight. You say you want to be his Highness's sharpest sword, but any man needing a sword must have something to fight for, right? If you truly wish to serve his throne, have you thought about what that is?”

  A silence passed, and the boy could only sit dumbfounded. It eventually became clear his father wanted an answer.

  “The… people?”

  “Good.” He patted his shoulder. “Good indeed. The people.”

  Lionheart turned, and though the doors were closed, he gestured toward the D’lorn with an all-encompassing motion. “A ruler is nothing without subjects to rule. And our Barony is no different, son. Those born with power over others have a duty to protect them. But as a sword?” he laughed. “The sword has its place but is hardly the most direct form of protection. I have given my eldest as his Highness’s sword already. So, no, Lucius, you will not be a knight.”

  “But—”

  “King Eldiwin entrusts his knights to lead his armies. His sword marches to his will, but some dangers lurk closer than it can cut. If you truly wish to serve the throne, Lucius, you will be his Highness's shield instead. An adventurer.”

  Lucius’s jaw dropped. “An adventurer? But I thought nobles didn’t…”

  The boy’s mood brightened even as he stammered his words. When he found them again, he realized his father hadn’t answered his initial question.

  “Why is it the highest honor? The armor?”

  Lord Lionheart smiled, then hoisted his son up beneath the arms, so the glass reflected his face again. It was one thing to have a dream, and another to understand it. When the boy looked at his reflection, he didn’t just see himself but what he might stand for. The sparkle in his eye seemed to pierce the glass display, touching the armor itself with its light.

  “Oslumnen armor is the highest honor because there is no honor greater than to serve your people, son. And the title of nobility she comes with isn’t simply a retirement, but another form of service. We take a different type of oath then—a vow of armor. May His Highness’s sword deter all threats to his people. May his shields defend them from harm. But if neither proves up to task…”

  Young Lionheart’s eyes stared back at him from that purple abyss.

  “Then, no matter the malleability of our bones, may we put their lives before our own. As armor.”

  With those words, a spell was spoken into existence. That armor had become something more in that moment. It did not think, and yet it was. That which gives meaning is sometimes given meaning in return. And that was true for both the armor, and the boy.

  Time passed, and Lucius gave it its daily maintenance, long after the month he promised Lyla had passed. Over that time, meaning took root. Ever deeper, ever darker, ever closer. The armor was treasured, and that did not change even when that young boy was no longer so young, and hair grew in tufts on his chin. Nor when he left the town behind and returned several years hence, a hero.

  “Today,” a much older Lucius said, hand at work polishing, “Lyla told me she loved me. I… I’ve never had much of a mind for romance, but I can’t believe I never noticed. It would never work out, of course, given our stations.”

  Lucius didn’t know when it had begun, but he’d found it a calming routine to talk out his thoughts when he polished the armor. The boys in town used to tease him about talking to himself.

  “Today,” the same voice spoke years later, “Lyla and I told Father. He seemed furious when he gave us his blessing, but deep down, I think he was overjoyed to be a grandfather.”

  Indeed, that day it had been Lord Lionheart who shed tears the day his grandson was born.

  “Another peaceful day.” Lucius reported. “There’d been a bandit incident, but that’s dealt with. Aside from that, monsters seem to be staying further away from our settlements these days, but I can’t help but still worry. I decided to have men posted at towns in our northern territories. They’ll send word if anything happens.”

  More days passed, and that proved to be a prudent precaution.

  “Say,” Lucius said on another day, “Why does it feel like you listen when I talk to you? Is it just me?”

  Lucius stood in silence for a moment, pondering. He scratched his head, walking off.

  “Ahh, today’s a good day to be back home…” Lucius entered the foyer. He had a full-grown beard now and a dozen new scars. “It’s been a little while, sorry. An old friend of mine ran into some trouble across the continent, but it’s finished now. Gods, I haven’t fought that hard in ages. Have the servants been keeping you polished like I’ve told them?”

  Yes, but the armor preferred him. The days passed in a blur.

  “Today… nothing new to report!” Lucius laughed.

  “Good news, today,” He said on another dawn. “I’ve just received word that a peace has been arranged with the Balstani. About time, too. We’ve been fighting that war since my father’s days. I heard Deitan had a crucial part in securing their surrender. Ain’t he just the model knight?”

  “Ahh… it’s cloudy today. I hope this doesn’t ruin the potato festival.”

  “Today…” Lucius leaned in, “Well, keep this between you and me, but Mayor Samwise’s been working hard recently, we’ve been planning a little surprise…”

  “Well, I gotta say, that thing with Samwise yesterday turned south real quick… Damn, I’m bored…”

  The very next morning, Luciuc burst through the foyer doors. “Hey! You won’t believe this, but today Lyla and I have just had our ninth child! We’ve decided on her name too. Lylucius!”

  Today, it was a magical word. From the foyer, the armor witnessed all who walked through—the mayor on official business, townsfolk in celebrations, the noble family and their servants—but that word was the cornerstone for it all. Perhaps it wasn’t every day that Lucius would utter it, but every time, he would always say it with his cheekiest smile.

  Until one day, he didn’t.

  “Today.” The word came like a choked sob as Lucius’s hand stopped its polishing. His fingers scrunched tight around the cloth's fabric, knuckles white. He let the rag drop, hand going to cover his eyes as he fell back on the foyer’s lounge.

  “The world is changing,” he said eventually. “It has changed, and so suddenly… I’ve received word that Deitan has died. Bravely, supposedly, but from what I hear, there’d been no room for bravery among those who had been there. Just death.”

  He shuddered. Then he stood, approaching the display.

  “The word is that King Eldiwin is gathering a round table like in the golden age of legends, and he wants Father to serve as one of his Lords. He left just this night, and strong as he is, I’m not fool enough to think he’s coming back. So, that leaves only me.” He clasped the armor on its shoulder. “Us.”

  The display was open, with no glass between Lucius and his armor. She had not been polished in some time, yet her Oslumnen shimmer was so glossy that his reflection stood there regardless—as if worn by the armor and not the other way around. He was so tall that it seemed to fit him perfectly, limb for limb as if forged for that purpose.

  “As the eldest living son of my father, William Lionheart,” Lucius said, “I, Lucius, am now Lucius Lionheart, Lord and Baron of the Ato Valleys.” He took a deep breath, steeling his resolve. “It is my honor to serve as His Highness’s armor. May any harm to his people come through me first.”

  Lord Lionheart spun, turning to walk through open swung doors. An army of adventurers and townsfolk outfitted with pitchforks and shovels stood ready outside. The people.

  The armor… protected its people.

  For once, the armor that had bathed in Lucius’s light for so long tried to extend its own light. But it had not yet been time. Its voice was not heard.

  Lionheart turned back one last time. “We’ve got dark days ahead, but keep protecting us, will ya?”

  The door closed, leaving the armor alone in the dark.

  With time, that display case would be splattered by blood. Bodies of the people it was meant to protect would be massacred in front of it. And by the time the last screams went quiet, that light that had yet to bud would be twisted and snuffed out.

  It had not yet been time. It never would be.

  * * *

  Darkness. The armor floated in an all-consuming dark, no longer alone or so twisted.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say never,” a familiar voice said. “Your time will come, after all.”

  A hand clasped the armor’s shoulder—not from the front this time, but from the side, like a friend might.

  Recognition.

  The armor imagined being worn by the soul in her presence as a hearty laugh echoed. “Ahh… it’s good to see you again. But no, that’s not what I mean. Our time has passed. I am no longer your master, and you are no longer armor.”

  Sorrow. Regret.

  Regret. It overflowed, bursting as though from a broken dam. So, so much.

  “Oh, none of that,” Lionheart snapped. “Whether you know it or not, you’ve served us well. Even now, you’ve still been protecting us, have you not? You’ve given Lylucius her peace. You cleansed my child.”

  The armor seemed to warp, its form shifting. It flickered, as if resisting the change. Armor is forged to protect. Armor should perish before its people. Armor…

  “But you aren’t armor anymore. You’re a sword. You wanted to change, didn’t you?”

  Met with resilient silence, Lionheart sighed. “Slumber, child. You’ve served me well, but you have a new light now. The highest honor is to serve, so let me guide you. Let me show you how.”

  Those words tapered off like the end of a dream as the blade embraced the darkness. Following that voice, it spiraled darker and deeper. Regret. It was their cornerstone.

  That which gives meaning is sometimes given meaning in return, and that was true here. The darkness was not so bad. Because the deeper the dark, the greater the light that casts its shadow. And as the blade sunk deeper and darker, following that voice so much like her own, she found it.

  The light of a Divine Core.