The first thing I felt was cold.
Not "winter wind on your cheeks" cold—more like "you are metal and the world is stone" cold. The second thing I felt was stillness, a kind of silence so deep it pressed against my thoughts like a lid.
I tried to blink.
I couldn't.
Because I didn't have eyes.
I tried to breathe.
I couldn't.
Because I didn't have lungs.
And then the worst part hit me:
I couldn't move.
Panic sparked—hot, bright, human—and for a moment it didn't make sense against the icy calm of whatever I'd become. I tried to scream, but there was no mouth to scream from.
Yet somehow… I heard myself anyway.
Hello? HELLO?! Can anyone—?!
The sound didn't travel through air. It echoed inside me, inside the hollow space where my heart should've been.
I focused, and for the first time I could sense my shape.
Long. Narrow. Perfectly balanced.
A blade.
A sword.
"Oh," I thought, horrified. "Oh no."
Memories came like broken glass—snatches of my old life with no clean edge to hold. A rainy street. A flash of light. Someone shouting my name.
Then nothing.
And now—
I was a sword.
Not just any sword, either.
Because the place I was kept felt important: thick wards humming through the walls, ancient runes carved into stone that tasted like old prayers. I lay inside a dark vault, resting on velvet that hadn't been touched in centuries.
Above me, faint candlelight trembled.
Footsteps approached.
Not the heavy stomp of a guard. Not the careful tread of a thief. These steps were steady—trained—but there was a softness in them too. Like someone who carried courage the way others carried breath.
A voice murmured from beyond the vault door.
"Grand Archivist, are you sure…?"
An older voice answered, dry as parchment. "I'm sure. The kingdom is out of time. If the prophecy is true, the sword will answer her."
The door opened with a groan that shivered through the wards.
Light spilled in.
And I saw—no, I sensed—her.
She walked into the vault like she had permission from fate itself.
Not tall, not small, somewhere in between. Dark braid over one shoulder. A clean white cape pinned with the crest of the royal order. Her armor wasn't showy, but it was cared for, polished in the honest way that said: I do my own work.
Her eyes—sharp, bright—scanned the room.
Then she looked straight at me.
Even though I was just a sword on a cushion.
Even though she shouldn't have been able to tell.
Her gaze narrowed slightly, as if she'd heard something.
Me.
My panic.
My presence.
The Archivist's voice softened. "Lady Elowen. The kingdom has named you the Heroine of the Fifth Dawn. This is the blade said to guard the world's last light."
Elowen didn't reach for me immediately. She stepped closer slowly, respectful, like approaching a sleeping animal.
"I don't want a weapon," she said quietly. "I want… a way to protect people."
Something in my chest-that-wasn't-a-chest cracked.
Protection.
That word felt right.
It felt like me.
Without thinking, I tried again to speak—this time not as a scream, but as a message aimed at her heart.
Then we want the same thing.
Elowen froze.
The Archivist blinked hard. "Did you… hear that?"
Elowen's voice came out half a whisper. "Yes."
Oh no.
Oh no, she really heard me.
Her hand lifted, hovering above my hilt.
"Can you speak again?" she asked.
I gathered myself—whatever "myself" was now—and pushed my thoughts outward, like pressing my palms against a door.
I'm here. I'm awake. And I think I'm… stuck as a sword.
A breath escaped her, almost a laugh, but it broke halfway with disbelief. "You're… a person?"
I was a girl. I think. I don't remember everything. But I'm not just… steel.
The Archivist's knees nearly gave out. "By the Saints. The sword has a soul."
Elowen's fingers finally closed around my hilt.
The moment she touched me, the world changed.
Heat rushed through the metal of my body. My runes flared alive, and a link snapped into place between us—bright as lightning but gentler, like a ribbon being tied.
I felt her heartbeat.
She felt my fear.
And we both felt the same thing, at the same time:
A promise.
A vow without words.
Elowen drew me from the velvet—
—and the vault answered.
Light poured from my edge in a soft golden line. The ward-runes on the walls chimed as if greeting an old friend. The air itself seemed to straighten, like a room standing at attention.
Elowen stared at the blade.
My blade.
It was beautiful. Not flashy—no gaudy gems—but elegant, like someone had forged a prayer into steel. Along my fuller, symbols shimmered like faint stars.
A name rose from somewhere deep inside me, written in memory I didn't know I had:
LUMENWARD.
Elowen's lips parted. "Lumenward…"
The Archivist bowed so quickly his beard nearly brushed the floor. "The Legendary Sword of Defense."
Defense.
Not slaughter. Not conquest.
Defense.
I could breathe again—metaphorically, but it felt real.
Elowen swallowed. "If you can hear me… what should I call you?"
I hesitated.
Names felt important. I didn't fully remember mine, but one syllable floated up from the fog like a buoy:
"Rin."
Call me Rin.
Elowen nodded once, decisive. "Rin. I'm Elowen."
She looked down at the blade—at me—and her expression turned serious, almost shy.
"Will you fight with me?"
The bond between us hummed. I felt her resolve and the weight she carried. The pressure of being chosen. The fear of failing anyway.
I didn't want her to be alone.
Yes, I answered. But… I don't know what I can do yet.
Elowen exhaled. "Then we'll learn together."
She turned to leave the vault—
—and the world lurched.
A strange pull yanked at my awareness, like gravity grabbing my soul by the collar. The runes along my blade flared too bright, then—
I fell.
Not as a sword falling from her hand.
I fell as if I'd been dropped out of myself.
Light exploded, soft and warm, and suddenly I had:
Arms.
Legs.
A heartbeat.
Air in my lungs.
I stumbled forward—tiny feet slapping against cold stone—and would have faceplanted if Elowen hadn't caught me instantly.
Her hands were strong and warm around my shoulders.
My hair—wait, I had hair again—fell into my eyes in messy bangs. My clothes were… simple. A little tunic, short cloak, soft boots.
And when I looked up at Elowen, the angle was wrong.
Too low.
Way too low.
Elowen's eyes went wide. "Rin?!"
The Archivist made a strangled noise. "THE SWORD IS A CHILD."
"I'M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE A—" I started, then stopped because my voice came out higher than I expected.
Like… a kid.
A very small kid.
I spun toward a polished bronze shield mounted on the wall, and my reflection hit me like a slap:
Big eyes. Round cheeks. Soft, baby-faced features.
Adorable.
Tiny.
Definitely not my old self.
"What—why am I—?!" I stammered.
Elowen stared at me like I'd just dropped out of a fairy tale. "You're… cute."
"That is NOT the issue!" I snapped, then immediately clapped my hands over my mouth.
…My hands. Tiny hands.
Elowen's face twitched. She looked like she wanted to laugh and also like she was terrified to.
The Archivist shuffled forward, squinting at the runes on the vault wall. "A Spirit Manifestation… it's in the old texts. A legendary weapon's soul can project a form to speak more easily with its bearer."
"So I can… leave the sword?" Elowen asked.
The Archivist frowned. "In a manner of speaking. But if she's manifested as a child…"
I pointed at myself. "Yes. Please explain the CHILD part."
The Archivist adjusted his robes, suddenly very interested in not making eye contact with me. "It may be because your soul is newly awakened and cannot maintain an adult manifestation without—"
"Mana," Elowen finished quietly, feeling the bond. "You need power."
I looked at her, startled.
She understood already. She could feel it through the link.
Elowen nodded slowly, voice gentle. "You're not a child because you are one. You're a child because it's the form you can sustain right now."
I blinked, processing.
"So I'm… like a low-battery sword ghost," I muttered.
Elowen's mouth curved. "A defensive, talking, legendary, low-battery sword ghost."
"Stop saying it like it's cute!"
She failed. A laugh escaped her—small, surprised, warm.
And somehow, that laugh made the vault feel less like a tomb and more like the beginning of something.
I crossed my arms—tiny arms, ugh. "Fine. If I'm stuck like this, can I at least do what a legendary sword is supposed to do?"
Elowen's expression sharpened. "Protect."
The bond flared.
Something ancient inside me woke up properly.
My palm tingled, and golden symbols spiraled over my skin like ink made of light. A translucent barrier shimmered into existence between us and the vault door, thin as glass, strong as a fortress wall.
The Archivist's jaw dropped.
Elowen stared, awed. "Defense magic…"
I felt it. The spell wasn't hard. It was natural.
I could weave protection the way birds weave flight.
And in the same breath, I sensed something else—another function, another truth about myself:
I wasn't just her shield.
I was her booster.
A support core.
A bond-weapon.
A voice inside me whispered the name of the ability like a bell tolling:
HEROINE'S RISE.
A surge I could pour into her—strength, clarity, reaction, courage—amplified by our connection.
Elowen took a slow breath. "Rin… what are you?"
I looked up at her, my thoughts finally settling into something steady.
"I'm… your legendary sword," I said. "And I think I'm also your partner."
Then, quieter—because the question had been gnawing at me since I opened my eyes in that cold velvet dark—
"And I'm going to find out why I woke up like this. Why I became Lumenward. Why I'm in a kid's body."
Elowen's gaze didn't flinch away.
"Then we'll find out together," she said.
And the moment she spoke it, the wards in the vault shivered—like something listening from far away had just noticed we'd finally begun moving.
Somewhere beyond stone and rune and kingdom walls…
Something old, hungry, and familiar to this sword's name—
stirred awake.