“Where did you get this?” Kron, the blacksmith inquired of the boy on the seat of the wagon.

“It fell from the sky three nights ago,” he replied.

“That is the rarest of iron.” Kron murmured, “fit to become the greatest of swords. Four Gold Rounds for you, my lad, and I will unload it.”

Kron struggled with the heavy meteorite, trying to move it off the wagon.

“Perhaps I can help,” I offered. He accepted gratefully.

Six weeks it took for Kron to forge a sword from that fallen star. When it was complete, he offered it to me for 400 in gold; we’d become friends by then.

At four feet five inches, it was longer than other swords, and heavier by far. Both these things suited me though, for I am 6’9 outside my boots. The blade was forged to resemble a lightning bolt, double-edged, sharpened to perfection, capable of slicing through armor like cheese. A hardwood grip wrapped in senew with a simple brass pommel and a brass cross-guard perfectly fit my hands.

I named the sword Skye, then set off to slay a King.