Ullrsar

In his hand — nothing. But then... He whispers a word in a language forgotten even by the dead, and the void answers. A shimmer. A ripple in the air. A crack of silence. And a blade blinks into existence. Spectral. Not forged. Manifested. Blacker than night and humming like breath held too long. He does not look at it. “Soon,” he murmurs, “they’ll call us monsters. Or worse: miracles.”