The morning mist clung to the shattered stones of the Blackfield, smelling faintly of old iron and the deeper, unsettling scent of dried blood. For Kaela Vane, it was just another Tuesday. Her worn boots crunched on fragments of pottery and splintered shields, a familiar symphony that had accompanied her scavenging since she was old enough to hold a salvage hook.
She moved with the fluid, cautious grace of a shadow, her slim frame weaving between the skeletal remains of siege engines and the overgrown mounds that were once defensive earthworks. The Blackfield was where Ostrum's last civil skirmish had bled itself dry two years ago, a scar on the land that the city council was in no hurry to clean. To Kaela, it was a larder, yielding bent armor plates, discarded arrowheads, and the occasional, valuable, still-intact utensil.
Today's hunt had been mostly dross. A cracked pot, a handful of rusty nails, a boot with a missing sole. Her sack felt light, a concerning omen for the orphanage. She gripped her salvage hook tighter, her brow furrowed beneath a tangle of dark, wind-whipped hair.
Then, she saw it. Half-buried beneath a fallen archway, where the shadow was deepest, lay a sword.
It wasn't a grand blade, not by any stretch of the imagination. The hilt was wrapped in what looked like desiccated leather, chipped and worn. The guard was a simple cross-bar, pitted and stained. And the blade itself… it was a study in neglect. A dull, earthy red of deep rust clung to most of its length, obscuring any faint gleam of steel. It was bent slightly near the tip, as if it had been discarded after a final, desperate parry.
Any other scavenger would have ignored it, maybe kicked it aside. A sword this rusted was worthless, good only as scrap metal, and even then, difficult to melt down. But as Kaela knelt, a strange sensation prickled at her fingertips. A faint hum.
It wasn't a sound that reached her ears, but a vibration that resonated deep within her, a quiet thrumming that felt like a memory waking. She'd felt it before, rarely, from ancient bells or specific stones, but never from something so mundane. She reached out, her fingers brushing the cold, rough surface of the hilt.
The hum intensified, a faint warmth spreading through her palm. It felt… responsive. Like something recognizing a touch after a long, lonely sleep.
Ignoring the ingrained lessons of pragmatism, Kaela pulled the sword free from the dirt. It came loose with a soft shiiing, and a shower of rust flakes rained onto her worn trousers. The balance felt surprisingly natural despite its derelict state, like an extension of her own arm. She gave it an experimental, clumsy swing. The air, heavy and still, seemed to part for it with a whisper.
"Rust-Eater," she mumbled, the name forming unbidden on her lips. It fit. The blade looked like it had consumed a thousand years of rust, and perhaps, with a bit of care, could yet consume more.
As the sun began to climb higher, painting the eastern sky in hues of pale gold, Kaela made her way back towards Ostrum, her salvage sack still disappointingly light. But now, she carried something else. Something heavy and strangely alive at her hip. Something that hummed a secret song only for her.
The gate guards, thick-necked men with bored expressions, barely glanced at her. They saw a skinny girl, carrying a worthless piece of junk, nothing to trouble themselves with. They had seen a hundred like her this morning, and would see a hundred more.
They didn't notice the faint, almost imperceptible glow that now seemed to emanate from the rusted blade, hidden just beneath the folds of Kaela's tunic. They didn't hear the hum. And they certainly didn't sense the flicker of a dormant power, an Ember waiting for a spark, deep within the girl who now gripped Rust-Eater as if it were a part of her own soul.
Kaela Vane had found her first blade. And with it, unknowingly, the first beat of her own unbroken heart.