Labyrinth of the Sword

The man lowered the blade and removed his finger. He winced harshly but did not cry out. Bowing, he gracefully set down the weapon, took the neatly-folded cloth and wrapped his hand before exiting the room.

The sword sat unmoving on the table, a finely polished item largely admired for its ceremonial appearance and accepted purpose. Yet for lustrous wrappings, its forging was most true. A misunderstood relic delegated to such honorable tasks in a civilized — if uneducated — age.

A dark smear alone halted reflection along the pristine edge. This was wiped from the steel, the edge oiled and honed, then returned to its sheath.