The gold-silver metal wire wrapped around the handle of the Man Who Returned’s shard-blade was not an abstract manifestation of will. It was physical metal, cold-drawn through a steel die, rusted by sweat and time. Then it stamped at the handle knob with a tiny foundry hallmark. In the dim, pale light of the paper maze, Master Ren’s ivory pestle struck his grey stone slate with a sharp, steady beat that sounded like a chisel carving epitaphs into granite. A shower of pale white sparks erupted from the slate, lighting up the tiny root glyphs etched along the jagged spine of the headsman’s weapon.
Master Ren’s dark eyes widened. His ink-stained fingers moved with furious, trembling speed, gesturing in the silent scribal tongue of the First High court: Foundry mark: Seventh Basin Imperial Mint. Alloy composition: eighty-four percent gold-silver metal, sixteen percent cold star-white-gold. Date of casting: Year of the Iron Eclipse. Scribe Ren, leaning over the floating ribbons of parchment, translated the signs with a low, whistling gasp through his teeth. ‘The Iron Eclipse?’ Scribe Ren muttered, wiping a drop of black ink from his chin. ‘That was the year the Great Collapse began. That was the year the Grand Duke signed the Treaty of the Un-Burned Dawn!’
