In the dust and rain-colored night, he sits cleaning his sword. The old places have come to haunt again. They wind inside him like coiled snakes, sleek and fork-tongued. Broken things layered over bone and sinew; scales that glint when touched by lighter eyes. There are bite marks on his heel where the skulls crunched. (Their ghosts are watching now; they taste the corners of his mind where blood-ink calligraphy has written things indecipherable in the dark. The venom will never bleed out—just clot the blood in his wounds.)

The shadows creaking on windowpanes are calling, framed by the downpour of rain and lightning flashes that bring daylight-clarity to figures with long blades. A bundle of brother and blood is pulled up against his side, shivering into his arm. His ghosts are still inside, watching and tasting. The ones alive are closing in with fangs jutting out from crushed heads.

The cloth stops gliding over steel. He lifts it, brings it to his side, slides it into the leather scabbard and eases the hilt under his brother's quivering hand. Fingers close half-comprehendingly around it and draw the weapon close to a heaving chest, seeking feverish comfort in the prints worn into blue bindings. Its twin still drips with calligraphy blood as he stands and faces the door.

If the ghosts take his brother tonight, let the poison bleed him dry. The piece he left behind contains everything that matters.