‘Do you have any idea what that thing you hold is?’ Fleya’s voice, usually so calm, was laced with fear.

‘It’s the Dreadblade.’ He lifted the scabbarded sword in her direction, and gasped as he felt it hum – a galvanising force that knifed its way through him, filling him with alarm and wonder. The Dreadblade recognised Fleya as a creature of majik like itself, and wanted her to marvel at its majesty and power. Unlike its wielder, the blade revelled in the fright Fleya exhibited at having seen it.

Us’dith orgh, the blade’s voice inside his head hissed, and although Lann didn’t understand the words, he knew what the sword wanted. It wanted to be freed from the scabbard it was housed in, freed so the witch could see it and be cowed by its power. Without knowing he’d done so, Lann noticed how his hand had wrapped around the hilt and how he’d already unwittingly pulled free a small amount of the dark blade.

If you bend to its will now, the sword, not its wielder, will forever be in control, a warning voice inside him said. And nothing, not even your precious sight, is worth being a slave to this thing.

Summoning up all his will, Lann forced his fingers to unfurl themselves from the sword’s grip, he placed his hand instead on the large round pommel at the top of the weapon and gently but firmly pushed it down.

He lifted his chin in the witch’s direction. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that sounded much older than his years. ‘It is the Dreadblade. Fashioned by Og to maintain balance in this world by ridding it of creatures from the Void. I am its bearer and its master, and it will do you no harm, Aunt. This I swear on my mother’s soul.’ As the words left his lips, he felt the sword’s influence slowly diminish.

Fleya, too, appeared to sense how, in those moments, her nephew had managed to establish a degree of control over the thing he held in his hands. Her eyes never leaving the black scabbard, she slowly climbed down from the wagon and gestured to the cabin.

They sat across the table from each other, Fleya sipping from a cup of hot chae that Lann had made her. The recipe was one she’d taught him and was supposed to help calm the nerves. Strong daylight poured in from the door and windows at the front of the cabin, illuminating dust motes dancing in the early morning air.