Chapter 44

Snow melts slowly under the warmth of the sun, revealing the polished insignia of House Kalt. Berwick stands in the center, cloaked in red, black, and gold. Kalt XVIII approaches nervously, scarf flapping behind him.

A large lacquered black case sits before them, split open with a hiss of enchanted steam.

Berwick von Blutschwert
(calm, instructive tone)
Today’s the day you stop relying on robes and fear to survive.

Kalt eyes the contents: a dazzling selection of weapons, each humming with restrained power and individual presence.

Berwick
Try them all. See what you like.

Kalt steps forward. His breath catches in his throat.

A gleaming katana, blackened steel, crimson edge—nearly weightless.

A straight sword, elegant and balanced, with a subtle golden trim.

A specter, long-handled and glowing, more ceremonial than practical.

A rune, shaped like a jagged core of energy, floating midair until grasped.

A tome, covered in frost, its pages breathing with silent incantation.

A morphing weapon, flickering between blade, staff, and gauntlet at will.

A scythe, twisted and ancient, carved with Raureifian elven runes.

A futuristic composite bow, sleek and angular, resonating with plasma nodes.

An energy rifle, humming with neon blue, designed to pierce dimensional walls.

A lance, regal and divine, engraved with the royal snow sigil.

A spellcaster sword, a thin bladed weapon with magical conduits running through its center—chant-enhancing, rhythm-based, deadly.

Kalt slowly reaches for the tome first. It freezes slightly in his hands before releasing a pulse of magic. He drops it with a yelp.

Kalt XVIII
(shivering)
Okay… not that one.

Berwick
(grinning)
Your body will tell you what it can and can’t handle. Trust it.

Kalt tests the others—swinging the katana (too fast), drawing the straight sword (too stiff), trying the rune (too chaotic), nocking the bow (awkward), firing the rifle (dangerously accurate, but unfeeling).

Eventually, he picks up the spellcaster sword. The air around it resonates faintly. As he swipes it, the blade rings out—not metallic, but harmonic. Magic naturally trails behind each movement, forming glyphs of his unspoken intentions.

Kalt XVIII
(amazed)
It… sings?

Berwick
(arms crossed, nodding)
Spellcaster sword. Rare and hard to master, but perfect for someone with innate rhythm and arcane flexibility.

Kalt XVIII
(firmly, gripping the hilt)
Then this is the one.

Berwick
(giving him a sharp look)
Good. Then you're one step closer to being a real ruler. Not just by name, but by will.

The two stand under the early sun, the weapon humming gently in Kalt's grasp as if acknowledging its new owner.