Freyrstav was holstered in Snowdog’s chambers. No one dared to enter that place, not even the maids who worked around the council rooms. To all the subjects, it was the same as any other holy ground. If there was one place that could be considered sacred among the Chaotics, surely it was the one place where they could rest.
Of course, Lady Parhelion knew this was a lie. Her father was seldom in the city, let alone in his chambers. If the man had need for sleep, Lady Parhelion had never caught him in the act. His chambers were not in fact dusty or unkempt, but rather tidy. Parhelion found very few spots in the city to hide from prying eyes, and so this spot was frequented when she needed to tuck herself away for a bit. She always made sure things were orderly, but never did she dare go near the frost sword.
But tonight, she crept into the chamber with a little more care than usual. Tonight, she would take Freyrstav with her, just to show him who she could be. The last time they’d talked, she had been training to be a cleric, of all things. Clerics didn’t wield swords. At the time, she thought she’d never have to deal with the surly blade. But here she was, hands pulling back the curtains surrounding the alcove.
Freyrstav was kept on a simple stand, lit by the moon through panes of clear glass. Here, despite Parhelion’s avoidance of the area, still no dust had acquired. Lady Parhelion reached for the blade immediately, but then drew her hand back. She thought about getting down on one knee before addressing it, but instead settled for a curt bow. Snowdog said she wasn’t to kneel before the kings and queens of this world, but what about one such as the king of all swords?
“I am Lady Parhelion, lone child of the Snowdog and Lady Starlight.” She said, keeping her chin tucked as she spoke. “I have come to take you with me.”
A groaning hiss spread across the room and Parhelion chanced a glance towards the sword. It was still motionless, but a fine frost had grown across the stand. Where the ice clung to the metal, a burning hiss resounded. Parhelion ducked her head down further.
“I mean no harm, nor will I wield thee against friend or foe. I wish to show you my strength. I want to earn your respect, so that I may one day fight alongside you. I want you to be proud of your bearer.”
Parhelion braced herself for a reply. She could barely remember what Freyrstav sounded like anymore. His was a voice of something ancient, something that perhaps could never be recalled entirely. But besides the hiss of the frost, there was no answer.
Lady Parhelion took a moment to turn around, watching the door. Was she wrong in coming here? Could she leave empty-handed or would that draw the sword’s ire? And if she left, would Freyrstav tell her father about this regardless? Secrets didn’t last long in the house of Snowdog.
And before panic could completely consume her, Lady Parhelion felt herself throw a quilt around Freyrstav and pull him from off the stand. His weight was foreign, and the frost stung even through the wrapped cloth. Before she had a chance to realize what she’d done, she was already stuffing the sword into her pack, still covered in the blanket. She spared a glance back at the stand once again, and realized it was too late now.
Drawing back the curtain, Lady Parhelion sped out the door and down the corridors. The Nine would be waiting outside the city’s gates, and they’d leave that night to go venture forth again.
In her haste, Parhelion was oblivious to her city. People were scarce on the streets, but those who saw her gave her quick greetings and bid her goodnight. They would be the last to see her for years, and they would spend that time wondering what exactly Lady Parhelion had been doing on the run so late into the night.
They would wonder about why she left a trail of frosty footprints behind her, and why they suddenly stopped at the edge of town, where only the stray dogs sat.