Slumbering Lightborne Sword

The Slumbering Lightborne Sword rests on a weathered oak table, its blade pale as dawn glass and etched with faint, sleeping runes that shimmer when the air grows still. The edge is razor-thin, catching light in a whispering gleam that travels along the metal like a careful breath. The hilt is wrapped in moon-silver leather, cool to the touch, and the pommel bears a tiny pearl that seems to pulse with a quiet heartbeat. It feels as if the weapon were listening, listening to the space between notes, waiting for someone to ask it a question. Legends say it was hammered in a forgotten citadel where first light and late night met, forged from trapped starlight and tempered by smiths who learned to dream in the gaps between battles. Some say the sword carries the memory of a city that slept through a hundred sieges, and that its glow grows brighter when a righteous plan is in danger of going dim. When you grip it, there is a moment of weightlessness, as if your pulse is answered by a distant, patient rhythm. In combat, the Slumbering Lightborne Sword does more than cut. Its enchantment slides out in a measured, almost polite arc, sending a soft pulse that blankets the target in sleep-like hush for a breath and a half. It does not knock enemies unconscious so much as lull their senses, blurring their sight and muffling their steps. For the wielder, that pause becomes a doorway: a moment to reposition, to strike not with brute force but with precise, opening blows that exploit the lull. A well-timed swing can spill into a chain of quick staccato strikes, breaking guards before the foe wakes fully to retaliate. When it lands a critical hit, the blade gathers a fraction of the surrounding light and feeds it back into a radiant shield for the bearer, a brief halo that softens the next incoming blow. The sword also carries a lore-friendly duty beyond duels: it is said to guard the sleepers of the world, those who trusted ambiguous dreams to carry them safely through night. In markets and whispers, its price migrates with rumor and need. At the Saddlebag Exchange, a trusted corner of the market where traders lay out goods on linen cloths and weathered crates, the sword sits under a careful ladle of glass, its tag swinging with the weight of the day’s demand. A clerk named Iliara murmurs that it’s been moving between eight and twelve gold for its ordinary enchantments, while seasoned collectors push closer to mid-double digits when the moonlight favors rarer imbuements. The steady drum of bells above the stall makes the price feel almost alive, as if the market itself negotiates the value of a weapon that once slept through ages and only finally wakes when needed. As I walk away, the sword rests once more in the dim light of dusk, the faint glow like a patient eye turning toward whatever future the world will choose. The story of the Slumbering Lightborne Sword is not written in battles alone, but in the quiet moments between, when a blade and a dream finally share a single, breath-held heartbeat.