I wonder if she even bothered to place hand on my hilt if I would be thrumming with anger. I believe that’s human word for it…or is it jealousy? The words and their meanings all blur and become this thing, emotions that I’m not supposed to feel. How can cold steel have feelings?

The little voices above me mock me for my pain. How would they know? The four damned, petty, woe-is-me dragons of the Zodiac Blade.

They don’t know what its like. Before this pitiful woman that claimed me as her own I had a purpose. My tip would break through the flesh and the blood would run hot. It would stain me crimson as I tore through the flesh when the Great One wielded me. The Witch fears what I can do, the need for that crimson liquid that can scald with its purity. The pathetic, simpering dragons of the Zodiac Blade get blood crusted under their silver scales, bickering at how unclean and oh, won’t she hurry up and round up the polish and the water so they will gleam like the palace silver.

We are swords. We do not exist to be pretty pieces for display.

Forged from the flame we were. The flame that consumes and destroys. We exist to cut through bone, and bring pain. We exist for to execute justice for the strong who believe themselves to be right. We exist to defend and smite the weak. If we had mouths we would drink deeply the crimson source of life. We would drink all that a being could offer and still never be sated.

I have drunk and nearly drowned in blood when the Great One used me to cut through the legions of her enemies. I have been crusted and stained with the crimson liquid. It has flood ever inch of my steel form and I have yet to come close to having that thirst sated.

I know it will never come, and the stupid Witch does not do a damn thing to ease my frustration.

It’s times like this when I curse the smith that reforged me for that pathetic woman.