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Summary
Every night for the past six months, Sword would have the exact same dream.
He would be walking around Crossroads, talking to someone (He never did get the other Inphernal’s face, for some odd reason... ) whilst they were heading to him and Venomshank’s usual training spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he would spot blood in an alleyway, and being the hero he supposedly is, he’d go and investigate. As he rushed to the trail of blood, he saw a feather. And then another, and another until when he got to the source, it seemed like someone cut open a pillow and strewn the contents across the pavement with naught but reckless abandon. But… it wasn’t a pillow. It never was.
Every single time, he would be staring at his very own corpse, torn to bloody shreds as his own blood pooled around his shoes.
And that was when he would wake up.
(aka sword grows wings and now its everyones problem)