The Prophecy of the Sword

The grim-faced man leveled his sword at Lord Ismaik. “It is finished,” he growled, his muscles flexing.

Ismaik said nothing, his eyes narrowed.

“I am Trestan, the seventh son of a seventh son, trained by the Garganti,” said the man. “I have returned from the jungles of Anku with Se-Rok-La, the Blade That Thirsts. I have completed the pilgrimmage to Shardon and received the blessing of the Last Singer. I am the hero of prophecy, and I will slay you for the death of my father.”

Lord Ismaik smiled then, and laughed. “Who do you think wrote those prophecies, boy?”