STRONG WILL

"is anything the problem kiddo?" 

His heart raced as he faced backwards towards the source of the voice

Emerging from the shadows is a broad shoulders, a familiar hitch in the right side of his face from an old battle wound, and that same proud bearing that had commanded respect without demanding it.

Father?" The word tore from Aethon's throat like a splintered bone. 

The man stepped fully into the firelight, and Aethon's breath caught. Every detail was perfect—the scar bisecting his left eyebrow from the Siege of his last war, the way his beard grayed first at the temples, even the slight stoop from the pain of wearing heavy armor, during the training before the last war

Seven years. Seven years since he'd watched this man fall, a sword in hand as his corpse returned home

"You look exhausted, son." His father's voice was exactly as he remembered,that gravelly baritone that could quiet a war council with a whisper. He knelt beside Aethon with the same stiff motion he'd always used when his old injury pained him. 

"mother's Gone" he said softly with whimper, doing his best to bottle up 

Aethon's throat tightened. His fingers trembled where they gripped the sword. This wasn't possible. It couldn't be....

The apparition reached out, hovering a hand above the Reaper's Fang. "This burden was never meant for you alone." The blade pulsed in response, its dark energy swirling like ink in water. 

Aethon's vision blurred. The sword's whispers returned, but softer now, soothing. They wove through his mind like a lullaby, promising rest, promising peace. 

"Just let go," his father murmured. "For one moment, let someone else carry the weight." 

Aethon's grip on the hilt slackened. The blade's song grew sweeter, drowning out the part of him that screamed this was wrong. His father's hand moved to cover his own-

His vision blurring. asthe swords whispering continues,but softer now, soothing. they wove through his mind like a lullaby,weaving into the river of his emotions, promising rest,promising peace

"just let it go" his father mumured . "for one moment let someone else carry the weight"

In all of this a subtle voice, almost voiceless kept screaming the opposite,

involountarily he held on to the sword,

"something about this dosen't feel right" aethon thought to himself

"Hmnnnn, the power of 'strong will', intresting, i have to nuetralize him before he can gain full control of it "

Although the sword posses the ability tto make people, rulers, power houses, gods, at most times,even fate, is always at it mercy. Although the sword possesing great strenght which is valued to be on par with the celestial beings,one thing it can't gain control over is the power of strong will. Meanwhile mind was dunked in an ocean of turbulence, something about his father dosen't feel right,but he couldn't quite place his hands on it,so he decided to let it go and focus on his father whom he hadnt seen for a long time.

The hours of the night was streched long enough for aethon to ask every questions on his mind

"Mind if I join you, son?" 

The voice sent a jolt through him. Rough, warm, edged with the same quiet authority that had once commanded battalions. Aethon's head snapped up, his fingers tightening around the sword's hilt. 

His father stood at the edge of the firelight. 

"You're dead," Aethon whispered grinning from ear to ear like a kid who just successfully played a prank on an adult, and indeed he just did 

His father chuckled, moving to sit across from him.

"And yet here I am."

He stretched his hands toward the fire, the flames reflecting in his eyes.

"Cold out here. You always did forget to pack proper gear." Aethon's throat tightened.

The words were exactly what his father would have said. The little details the way he rubbed his left knee when it ached, the way he exhaled through his nose when settling in—were perfect. 

Too perfect. 

But the sword was silent. No whispers. No warnings. 

"I've missed you, things werent easy when you left us, mom lost her mind , and was murdered in cold blood " Aethon admitted, his voice rough, trying his best to keep his over flowing banks of tears from bursting 

 "I know." His father smiled,for a moment,as thye smile was soon replaces by a hint of sadness

And for a moment, just a moment, Aethon let himself believe. 

They talked deep into the night. His father asked about his travels, his battles, the weight of the blade he carried. Aethon answered, hesitantly at first, then in a flood of words he hadn't realized he'd been holding back. 

"Do you remember,that winter when you were nine? When you tried to sneak out to see the solstice fires?"* his father asked softly

Aethon huffed a laugh. " Yeah ,you caught me at the door." 

"And what did I tell you?" 

"That the world wasn't ready for me yet," Aethon murmured. 

His father nodded, his gaze distant. " And I was right." 

A silence settled between them, comfortable. The fire burned lower. 

Then— 

"What was her name?" Aethon asked quietly. 

His father stilled. "Whose?"

"The woman you loved before Mother." 

A beat. A flicker. 

His father's face didn't change, but something in the air did. The firelight dimmed, just slightly. 

"I never told you about her," his father said. 

"No," Aethon agreed. "You didn't,guess you wanted to keep mother ,away from sadness,found a couple of letters in the artic" 

"she was my first love,that a long time ago"

"Lie,i got you,now,didnt I ?" 

 Aethon said this not because his father had loved someone before his mother but because there had been no one else. their love had started right from childhood and there was no other woman, His father had loved his mother fiercely, completely—Aethon knew that better than anyone. 

The illusion had slipped. 

The fire guttered. His father's face wavered—just for an instant—into something wrong. Too smooth. Too knowing. 

Aethon's grip on the Reaper's Fang tightened. The blade remained silent, but he could feel it now—the trap. The game. 

"You're not him," Aethon whispered. 

His father sighed, shoulders slumping. "No. But I could be." His voice was softer now, sadder. *"Would that be so bad? To pretend, just for tonight?"* 

Aethon's chest ached. The sword's silence was its loudest taunt yet—it had given him this. This gift. A chance to say the things he'd never gotten to say. 

But it was a lie. 

"Yes,It would." Aethon said hoarsely

 "I know." His father—the thing wearing his face—nodded slowly.

Then the fire snuffed out. 

Darkness swallowed them. When Aethon's vision cleared, he was alone. The campsite was untouched. The fire still burned. 

And the Reaper's Fang lay across his knees, its edge gleaming with something that might have been satisfaction. 

Aethon exhaled shakily, his fingers brushing the cold metal. 

The cruelest trick the sword had ever played wasn't the screams, the bloodlust, the violence. 

It was this. 

The ghost of warmth when all he had left was the dark.

that was how the blood fang swords strikes,plying on your most deepest desire,to it gateway to total control