Labyrinth of the Sword

The elder ran a keen eye close along the blade’s length, brushing it with a knowing thumb. “Do you know this?”

A moment can seem so long. “Grandfather, I—“

“Are you CERTAIN!?” Even the sentries shifted footing. The old man returned the sword to its sheath and began a slow encircling of the one before him. Regal appointings and embroidery seemed somehow drab flowing behind him.

“Yes, grandfather. I am certain.” Such years surely perceived a hardening of stance. A long blink. To quell the light, and its cruel reality.

“Many have been the years.” Grandfather continued, eyeing this one while voicing to the gathering. “Our fathers, and theirs, and theirs.” His voice echoed then faded.

The old man paused atop the gilded dais, stroking a dreaded beard and fingering its adorning jewels.

“We will to war.” And the king handed the sword to his grandchild.