I was born in the raging furnaces of a smithy; my white-hot, metallic color was still thrumming with the pulse of the inferno that I had been slid out of.

My edge was sharp, tapered to the point where I could split a hair – I could run swiftly through metal and wood alike, cleaving a path for my wielder.

But, ah, you see, that was the problem – my wielder.

No one dared touch my hilt.

My cross guard glinted dangerously, and all who set eyes upon it turned their gaze away for the glare.

I was not studded with precious jewels, nor filigreed with metal that fetched a fair price.

And only because of that, I was overlooked and avoided, and then driven into a rock – where I could supposedly bring no harm.

There was only one that could bend my power to his will, and I had yet to find him.

She said he would come to me; not as a man bequeathed in gold or swathed in pricey materials.

He would be naught but a farm boy.

And so, I waited, embedded in my stone.

I waited, like countless others, for my king.