Chapter 20: Right Blade, Wrong Time
Rowan felt for the hilt laying in his hand, its rough edges a sharp dagger against his skin.
There was a long, protruding ring of black matter that encased the hilt, providing with it more stable grip that fit almost perfectly into his hand.
Its aura was, by all means, otherworldly, the surrounding aether getting drawn in and blipping out of existence as it touched upon its blade.
The constitution of the blade was enough to make Rowan want to try it out immediately, jagged like forged obsidian and bringing with it a sense of warmth.
'Right blade, wrong time,' Rowan heard, the voice coming just a few inches above him.
He looked up, only averting his gaze from the sudden jolt from his hand.
Purple sparks flew, singing his skin and burning him immensely. He felt as if someone were to place a fire just a few inches too close to his skin, smoke coming from his hand.
"Grahhh!"
He yelled, snapping his arm back as the sword flew from him, landing cleaning into the floor below.
The surrounding concrete also began to suck into its sharp, the vibrant hue from the aether lacing it slowly ridding the material of its color.
"What was that," Alfred asked, walking up to touch upon the writbane's hilt.