'Hmm…several violent attacks on the frontiers…Bervenia Volcano erupts again…' Beowulf mumbles to himself, flicking through rolls of parchment, 'Nothing out of the ordinary,'

Putting down a scroll titled 'Chronicles of Lionel, June', Beowulf gazed out the window, listening to the heavy tapping of rain against glass. It was almost three years since the death of Reis; the only memories of her he kept within a glossy black cabinet, hiding away his sorrows in a casing equally dark. Wiping away the dust on the cabinet's surface, Beowulf pulled the handle of the drawer holding the stone holding her soul.

He placed it on the centre of his desk, gazing into the transparent black stone; flames danced within, carefree and playful, reflecting in every angle and direction. A flash of white streaked the surface of the crystal, followed by a rumbling of the sky; Beowulf pressed it against his chest, stroking its glassy surface. It was almost warm; yet a cold feeling he could feel within the dark depths of it, brooding and fearsome.

Some days it could be cold as a piece of ice, and some days it could be blazing hot, like a stone out of a furnace. A strange stone indeed…yet why can't other people feel it? The high priest himself said that he felt no presence of evil or a soul within…

The knight's fingers wrapped around the stone one last time before he placed it carefully within its cloth covering, kissing the seal with respect as he folded the corners together. It was nearly the third anniversary of her death; the sand clock on the wall trickled further down, ever closer to the next day, the next morning…

…The anniversary of her birth. Four…three…two…one…

A bright flash flooded the room, blinding Beowulf's eyes; shielding them with a hand, he hoped to see the very person he had wanted to be with for years…but when the light died down, he saw only the room, bleak, bare; only his face was reflected in the window, against a background of solid black streaked with white. An expression of dismay was on his face as he put the bundle of cloth back into the cabinet.

I couldn't expect any better. Reis is dead, Beowulf, she's dead; there's no way she's coming back to life. The day she'd be back would be the day when the High Priest is a heretic.

Locking the cabinet once more, Beowulf blew out the torch in the bracket above his desk. It was past midnight, as the sand clock showed, and tomorrow would be another routine day, patrolling the markets from dawn till dusk. With breaks interspersed irregularly throughout the day, and occasional treats of executing thieves.

Not the greatest job…but it will have to do, until I am fully reinstated to my original position as head of the temple knights.

Suddenly, a creaking noise reached the ears of the knight, who peered immediately over his shoulder. A shadow crept across the wall; he could see clearly in it the cloth wrapped around a person's face, a knife in hand. Beowulf drew out his sword, ready to slay the housebreaker when a stabbing agony pierced his chest.

A serrated edge stuck out of his robes, dripping with his own blood. It had torn through his ribs. He stumbled forward, swinging his rune-engraved blade inaccurately; the shadowed figure deftly sidestepped the swing, thrusting another knife into his body, drawing it out quick as a flash, leaving an open, bleeding wound deep into the knight's chest.

'Come…back…you…' Beowulf gasped; his breathing was laboured, ragged; almost close to death. Blood poured from the open wound, draining the strength from his arms and legs. The thief punched the cabinet open with incredible strength and speed, extracting a small cloth package and a well-crafted blackened blade from the wreckage, before escaping through the window; and Beowulf could not do anything about it, even though it was before his very eyes. He clenched his fists and sobbed dry tears into the wooden floor, falling unconscious as the injuries overcame his endurance.

'Sir, are you alright?' a soldier asked, bowing deeply to Beowulf before standing up straight, his helmet in his hands. He sported a scar across his face, which had healed some time ago.

'Could have been better,' Beowulf groaned, 'Are my belongings safe, Squire Crawford? None missing or otherwise destroyed?'

'All are accounted for, sir,' Crawford said, his eyes scanning down a list written on tattered scrap parchment, 'Except for the black cabinet in your study. That was totally destroyed, whatever was in there had gone missing,'

'WHAT!? Go search for it—there should be a pair of swords and a glossy black stone. It may still be in the house, with any luck,'

'By your leave,'

'And also, see to it that you bring a scribe to me. I have a message to send to everyone in Lionel and all its surrounding cities,'

What could someone want from Reis' belongings? All that's there is her twin swords, Soultaker and Defender, and that black orb that holds a soul…