A 'Divine' Talking Dagger

Soren pulled himself from the abyss, blinking as the world came back into focus. The river still flowed. The suns still hung high in the sky.

With a slow exhale, he raised his arm slightly, hovering it in the air.

I don't really need 'Aeternis.' I could just use my bare hands and learn essence.

The thought was fleeting, but it lingered in the back of his mind. Did he truly need a weapon forged by gods when he had already begun grasping the fundamentals of essence?

Still, with slight hesitation, he called upon the dagger.

Traces of light weaved into existence, gathering in his palm until the form of a weapon materialized in his grip. The backside of the dagger was jagged with hooked edges, meant to tear through flesh, while the blade itself was smooth and dangerously sharp.

He studied it briefly before—

A tugging sensation invaded his mind, an intrusive presence forcing itself upon him. Soren tensed as, against his will, his mouth moved.

"I, the blade forged by gods, shall face... no one?"

His own voice rang in his ears, yet the words were not his own.

A pause. Then, as if offended by its own declaration, the voice flared to life again.

"Do not call upon the divine to merely admire our presence!"

His voice—no, its voice—rose with irritation, forcefully claiming the air as if demanding an audience.

Soren's brow twitched. It can see everything, meaning it's sentient.

He clenched his jaw, forcing control over his own body, his gaze locked onto the dagger.

"Stop controlling my body." His words came as a mutter, his grip tightening ever so slightly.

Aeternis scoffed—a sword scoffed.

"A mere awakened who cannot even command his own body? It's like watching a ship drift without a captain."

Soren's jaw clenched as his own mouth formed words against his will. This was beyond frustrating.

"I can, so stop." His voice was sharper now, his irritation slipping through. "You're just a talking dagger."

"A talking divine dagger," Aeternis corrected, its tone oozing self-importance.

Soren exhaled through his nose, patience thinning by the second. "I'll control my body. You just have to pierce what I cut."

Aeternis let out a theatrical sigh.

"You will turn our triumphs into tragedies."

Soren's grip flexed around the hilt.

If that's the best answer I'm getting, I'll take it.

With that, something in Soren's mind unclenched, like a tension he hadn't noticed before. The pressure invading his thoughts eased, as if Aeternis had actually—however reluctantly—kept its word.

For the first time since summoning the dagger, his body was fully his again.

Soren stood in absolute silence at the riverbank. The only sounds were the quiet rush of flowing water and the occasional rustling of leaves in the canopy above.

He took a slow breath. Then he moved.

His stance shifted, feet planting firmly in the damp earth. He raised the dagger in front of him, gripping it in a reverse hold, while his free hand hovered near his face—ready to guard, strike, or throw a punch if needed.

He was no stranger to weapons, but daggers were not his specialty.

Swords had been his primary training. He understood the weight, the balance, the flow of a blade's movement—but daggers? Their use was fundamentally different.

A dagger wasn't meant to clash against a longsword in open combat. It was a weapon of precision, a shadow lurking beneath the strike of a larger blade. Those who wielded it either used it as a secondary tool or in tandem with a longer weapon.

But alone?

Daggers thrived in speed, deception, and ruthlessness.

Their size made them ideal for quick, lethal strikes, slipping past a sword's guard where a larger weapon would be stopped. In the hands of a skilled user, a dagger wasn't a weakness. It was an executioner's tool.

Soren flexed his grip on Aeternis, testing its weight. Lighter than expected, yet unnervingly sharp.

Soren settled into his stance, closing his eyes.

He pictured an opponent in front of him—a stationary figure wielding a sword. A trained fighter, guarding carefully.

With the image burned into his mind, he exhaled, then opened his eyes.

His body moved.

He surged forward, sliding his blade along the imaginary opponent's weapon, deflecting the clash as he sidestepped left, aiming for the elbow joint—a clean, decisive cut that would sever tendons and disable a swordsman instantly.

Or at least, that was the plan.

His feet didn't align with his intent. His body—exhausted and unfamiliar with the dagger's movement—lagged behind his thoughts. The last step faltered, throwing his balance off—

Soren stumbled forward. His momentum betrayed him, and before he could recover, he crashed face-first into the dirt.

And then—his mouth moved on its own.

"Pathetic."

Aeternis forced the words from Soren's own lips, its voice dripping with pure, unfiltered disappointment.

Soren, still sprawled in the dirt, took a slow breath. Then, without a word, he pushed himself up.

He reset his stance.

Again.

He moved through the same sequence, his body following the pattern he had envisioned. Step, deflect, slip past the guard—strike.

But just as his blade neared the imaginary elbow joint, he miscalculated. His reach fell short.

His swing cut through empty air.

And before he could even process the failure, his lips moved against his will.

"Disgusting."

Aeternis' tone carried genuine distaste, as if the mere sight of Soren's attempt offended it.

Soren exhaled through his nose, ignoring it.

He didn't have the energy to argue with a dagger.

As the evening stretched on, Soren repeated the drill over and over again.

His imaginary opponent remained unmoving—a silent, unshifting adversary. But no matter how many times he drove forward, adjusted his footwork, or altered his approach, his movements never fully aligned with his intent.

He missed. Again. And again.

Sometimes, his stance collapsed, his footing too weak to maintain balance. Other times, his timing was off, making his strikes ineffective.

And every single time he failed, Aeternis spoke.

"Magnificent. Even the grand hall's jesters could learn from you."

"Ah, yes. Flailing. A brilliant strategy."

"Truly… a disappointment."

Each remark was a verbal dagger, stabbing at his patience.

Soren endured it. He refused to react.

But the constant barrage of criticism, failure, and exhaustion wore at him.

By the Time the Suns Had Set…

He was on the ground, panting.

His dark hair clung to his sweaty forehead, his breathing ragged and uneven. His limbs ached—not just from exertion, but from frustration.

The dagger rested in his grip, its weight feeling heavier than before.

Soren stared at it for a long moment. Silent.

Before awakening, he wouldn't have even lasted this long.

Now?

Even after hours of training, he had made no real progress.

For the first time since summoning it, Aeternis remained silent.

As if even it had nothing left to say.

The night air was cold against his skin, but his body burned with fatigue. His stomach twisted in protest—cold, hungry, exhausted.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, he would try again.

If he didn't succeed, starvation would claim him before any monster did.

As if adding insult to injury, his lips moved against his will.

"Turn around, fool. You may be a mongrel in your skills, attitude, strength, intellect, knowledge, coordination, discipline, reflexes, awareness—"

Soren's patience snapped. "If there is nothing else, I will dismi—"

Aeternis cut him off, its tone almost offended by the interruption.

"You see that brush. At least recognize a delicacy when it is served to you."

Soren exhaled slowly, his irritation momentarily overridden by confusion.

He lifted his head and turned slightly, his gaze shifting toward the forest's edge.

There, tucked between the roots and scattered leaves, a dense patch of undergrowth covered the ground.

It was just a brush. Or rather, many of them.

Hesitantly, he answered, "I see it."

His lips curled into an involuntary smirk—not his own.

"Rip one from the dirt. Unless, of course, you prefer starvation to effort. Truly, a noble way to die."

Soren's brow twitched.

Aeternis was giving him advice.

And yet, somehow, it still managed to sound insufferable.

Why does a dagger even care if I starve?

He didn't ask. Hunger gnawed at him too harshly to argue.

Without a word, he trudged toward the plants.

Reaching the underbrush, he knelt and wrapped his fingers around the base of one.

Then, with a sharp tug—

The roots came free, far easier than expected.

Beneath the tangled top was a triangular-shaped, purple object, its thick skin coated in clumps of soil.

Soren stared at it. Edible?

His lips moved before he could think.

"Wash it, unless soil is your preferred seasoning—which, frankly, would not surprise me."

Soren clenched his jaw, his frown deepening as he dragged himself toward the river.

Kneeling at the bank, he dipped the root into the water, watching as the dirt dissolved from its surface.

Its deep violet hue gleamed in the moonlight.

His lips moved again.

"Run along, little worm, before the night chews you up and spits out your bones."

Soren exhaled sharply. I guess Aeternis means I should get back to the tree before something finds me.

The night had already settled in, and there was no reason not to follow Aeternis' advice—he had planned to climb the tree again either way.

With slow, steady movements, he pulled himself up the thick branches, returning to the same perch where he had spent the previous night.

Now, sitting high above the forest floor, he turned his gaze toward the sky.

The night stretched endlessly above him—a vast sea of stars, glowing faintly against the dark expanse.

In his hand, he held the strange root—some sort of vegetable, or at least he presumed it was.

Aeternis was dismissed, gone from his grip.

For the first time today, the silence was his own.