“What is this thing?”0

Wandering the White Snowfield, Ketal spotted a black axe half-buried where the wind had knifed drifts into the hollows between snow. He stood over it for a quiet moment, studying the way the haft lay canted in the snow, then reached down and closed his hand around the grip, lifting it in a single smooth motion.0

In that same instant, something inside the axe stirred. A presence that had been sleeping awoke and hurled itself toward the living being that had grasped it, rushing along the handle and into the hand that held it, intent on swallowing the soul and then the flesh that housed it. It was the kind of thing that made monsters seem tame, a devourer that even a seasoned powerhouse would not have resisted, not in any meaningful sense.1

Yet nothing happened.1

“Why was an axe just jammed into the ground like this?” Ketal asked the empty air, turning the weapon toward the light.0

He tilted his head and inspected his find. The edge showed not a nick, and the polish had a hard, cold gleam. When he gave it an experimental swing, the balance felt reassuring, and the weight sat in his palm as if made to be there.0

“This looks useful,” he said at last, shouldered the axe, and walked on.0

That was all there was to it—no visions, no shuddering change,...3