Erick stopped to look at the elegant shop where his acquaintance Rómulo was, a shop that shone in that square.
Feeling an itch on his back, the merchant looked in Erick's direction and smiled, but now Erick realized that wasn't a sincere smile. The wide and bright smile was that of a businessman, and desire was reflected in his eyes.
Mentally gripping his sword, Erick took a step forward and continued toward Rómulo. At least until now, Rómulo hadn't done anything for Erick to distrust him.
"Erick, lad, what brings you to my shop?" Rómulo exclaimed, his voice full of cheer that contrasted with the city's rain. "Come in, come in! You're soaked."
With a smile in response, Erick advanced into the shop, but it was at that moment that his body trembled, his hand instinctively seeking the sword as if sensing something it shouldn't.
Trying to dismiss those thoughts, Erick sighed only to smell a horrific odor, a pungent, metallic, and heavy smell, like the bile of a rat mixed with dry blood and the stale dampness of fear.
It was the unmistakable scent of terror.
Closing the door behind him, Rómulo walked toward Erick and touched his shoulder with a gesture that was too familiar. The mix between the merchant's expensive perfume and the pure stench of fear in the shop was a penetrating combination that Erick could barely tolerate, but he forced himself to stand firm.
"You came to see our products, lad," Rómulo said with a wide, neat smile. "We have very fine swords, although I doubt they are good enough to surprise you."
Flattering Erick, Rómulo guided him toward the counter that gleamed under the light of some hanging oil lamps.
Removing a blood-red velvet cloth that covered a built-in shelf, Rómulo showed him a sword.
This sword was not for war; it was more like a work of art. The blade was made of dark steel, to the point where it seemed to absorb the light as it passed. It was thin and elegant, with a slight curvature that untrained eyes would not recognize. The guard was made of polished silver metal, along with some inlaid jewels. The hilt, made of dark oak with engraved floral patterns, looked like a finely worked wooden canvas.
"The Lament of the Night" was inscribed on the stand on which it rested.
"A beauty, isn't she?" Rómulo whispered to Erick, stretching out his hand to move a lamp closer and highlight the sword's shine. The dark steel gleamed like silk. "I'll tell you a story."
"The blacksmith of this weapon was a dwarf who fell in love with a night elf, a forbidden love between species. The little elf hurt her hands touching the steel the blacksmith loved to wield, and the blacksmith couldn't help but break the flowers the elf gave him with his rough hands. So, the dwarf…"
Rómulo paused to run his hand over the sword's blade, with a gesture of mockery.
"...decided to forge a gift that would contain all his love for his elf. A weapon that was as delicate as the flowers she loved to gather and as strong as the finest steel. The dwarf embarked on a journey to the farthest mountains of the north and spent ten years there forging this sword, perfecting his technique, mixing materials, and drawing the floral patterns that adorn this sword in the moonlight."
Rómulo now ran his hand over the sword's hilt, stopping at the floral engravings.
"In the end, he created this sword, 'The Lament of the Night.' A blade that is as strong as a war hammer, but whose hilt is soft to the touch and the blade so polished it wouldn't even snag silk. Unfortunately, ten years had passed since his journey, and the night elf, who always came out to the clearing to wait for her beloved, had been captured by some humans during that time. The dwarf, in his desperation, tried to negotiate only to learn of human wickedness."
A small smile filtered onto Rómulo's mouth, as if recalling a good friend.
"The humans, knowing his love story, proposed a deal: 'We will free your beloved from being our slave in exchange for you forging weapons for us.' The dwarf, in his desperation, accepted, not realizing that the contract was made to last forty years, during which the dwarf would not see the light of the sun or the moon, but always trusting the humans' word."
"Upon the forty-year term expiring, the humans, made rich by selling the dwarf blacksmith's weapons, only laughed when they saw the dwarf come to claim his part of the deal."
Rómulo imitated the captors' voice, with a mocking and cruel tone.
"'Yes, we freed her, but we never said where,' the humans replied."
"Without realizing it, the humans had freed his beloved by selling her at an auction to a wealthy noble from the capital. They did not break their word—they freed her from being a slave to their service, only to give her to another. The dwarf, in a fit of rage, pointed his hammer at the human in front of him, only to feel the swords he had created being wielded and pointed at him."
With a small laugh, Rómulo continued.
"With a final shout, the dwarf attacked. But what could he do? He was just a small man with a broken heart. The humans, seeing the dwarf's hatred, decided it was best to prevent future problems. They grabbed a rod from the dwarf's forge and, with complete calm, burned the blacksmith's hands so he would never be able to use the hammer again."
Rómulo straightened up with a sigh and immaculately adjusted his clothes, as if he had just recounted a trivial anecdote about the weather.
"That's why it's called 'The Lament of the Night,' Erick. Because every time the dwarf remembers, he laments the nights he left his beloved alone, and then he laments not being able to forge again. It is a story of betrayal and avarice. Of how the value of a thing destroys the one who creates it or loves it."
Looking into Erick's eyes, Rómulo smiled at him. A merchant's smile is always calm, regardless of the situation. It is the type of gesture that keeps allies' morale high and enemies guessing what their next move will be. Right now, Erick did not know what emotion to feel toward that smile.
"A merchant's greed knows no bounds," the sword said, still knowing that no one could hear