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Ketal ran his palm along the haft of the axe, testing the balance and finding the familiar give of the grain beneath his fingers. Caliste watched without hurry. His duty was to bar the way. There was no need to press. If Ketal wished to come to him, he would meet him and turn him aside.
“You really have only the sword,” Ketal asked him, curious despite the war beating around them. “No other authority, no hidden art?”
“None.” Caliste’s answer was even, almost gentle. “All I possess is this blade.”
It was not an ordinary sword. It held an authority that could cut all things and would not break so long as its wielder’s will did not fold. That made it a rarity among rarities.
Even so, it was still a sword. It did not flip the heavens, unmake continents, or pour earthquakes from a single gesture. In most hands, it would have been one more tool swallowed by brute force. Any middling demon who tried to live by it alone would have died without ever making a mark. Yet, Caliste had taken that single sword and climbed to the throne of a Demon Lord.
A nameless demon had polished one craft until it shone brighter than crowns. Ketal felt honest admiration rise.
“I’ll admit it,” Ketal said. “The path I have used until now will not break you. So, I will return to where I began.”
He shifted his grip. One hand slid...
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