S02E04 - 01 The Unbound Fang – A Blade of Choosing
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The fire had burned low. Only coals remained, casting long, restless shadows among the old stone ruins. Most of the camp had quieted. But not Tharuk.
He stood just outside the fire’s reach, something heavy wrapped in dark cloth clutched in his hands. His brow was drawn tight, jaw working like he was chewing on something that wouldn’t go down easy.
Ciaranna sat alone by the fire, her eyes half-lidded, distant—lost in the kind of thoughts only silence could carry. She looked peaceful. Not untouchable, but unreachable in that moment.
He took a breath. Let it out slow.
Stepped forward.
“Lady Lyndis…” he began, voice rougher than he meant.
He winced, shook his head like trying to dislodge a stone from a boot.
“Ciaranna.”
She looked up. No judgment. Just presence. And for Tharuk, that was always the hardest part.
He knelt. Not like a soldier. Not like a supplicant. Like a man laying down something precious and unsure whether it should even be offered.
From the cloth, he drew a dagger. Short. Forged of Cold Iron. Dull and pitted, refusing to reflect the firelight. It looked... old. Like a story carved into metal.
He set it between them and exhaled through his nose.
“Didn’t forge this. Wouldn’t dare. But I know the story. And I think… I think you need to hear it.”
His hand rested on the dagger, but didn’t grip it.
“There was a woman once—no one remembers her name. Not anymore. Her mother sold her fate before she ever drew breath. Made a pact with a Fey lord for power or safety or love—don’t matter which. All it cost was the child’s name. Her future. Her will.”
“She grew up with that fate wrapped ‘round her like silk. No scars. No hunger. But no choices, neither. It wasn’t until the Fey came to claim her that she felt the weight of it. Felt the lie."
He looked up then, meeting Ciaranna’s gaze—not boldly, but steadily.
“She didn’t scream. Didn’t run. She went into the woods. Took three days. She bled into stone. Burned old herbs by moonlight. Cut her hand over raw iron. Cold Iron ain’t made by hammers—it’s made by ritual. By truth. She made this. With nothing but will and silence.”
“And when the Fey came for her… she didn’t argue. She bit through her own tongue so no word of consent could be twisted free. Then she struck. One cut. No scream. No plea.”
He tapped the hilt, gently.
“They call it The Unbound Fang. But the Fey can’t speak of it. Can’t name it. Can’t warn each other. It’s a truth they can’t touch.”
He nudged the wrapped dagger a little closer to her, as though he feared he might insult her by placing it in her hands.
“This ain’t a weapon for killin’. It’s a weapon for choosin. For sayin’ no to what was written. For endin’ what others claimed you’d become.”
A beat. He looked away, embarrassed now, his voice quieter.
“When I look at you, I don’t see some lost queen or rebel noble. I see her. That woman who broke the silence with her blood. Who forged her own damn fate.”
“You’ve walked close to the edge, Ciaranna. You’ve looked fate in the eye and didn’t flinch. This blade… it ain’t a gift. It’s a mirror. Of who you already are.”
He stood, slowly, as though the act of rising pulled something from him.
“You don’t owe me nothin’. Just thought you should have it.”
And with that, he stepped back into the dark, the fire behind him flickering faintly over the cloth-wrapped blade lying at her feet—silent, and waiting.
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