The sword thrummed as Miles stepped closer, and the air around it shimmered, vibrating with restrained energy, as if the weapon had not only weight, but will. As if the sword had not been touched by time at all, it rested, still alive and breathing, on the floor before the throne.
It pulsed faintly with a deep red glow, in time with something deeper than heartbeats, like a song being sung through the heartbeat of something ancient and patient.
Miles stood before it, hesitant.
The figure on the throne had fallen still, as though pointing at the sword had drained what little life remained in its shriveled form. The chains around its limbs were slack, as if they only bound it out of ritual now, not strength.
"Touch… It…" The thing spoke again, shaking Miles off his reverie, and he did. His fingers trembled as he reached out, brushing the hilt of the sword. His hand curled around it, and the world snapped.
