‘Every sword has a name. Every sword worth knowing, at least.’
Burke repeated the words over and over again in his mind. ’Every sword has a name,’ his own voice said, echoing inside his skull. No one had ever said those words to him. No one he had known, anyhow. An author had written them in a novel. It wasn’t even a good one, but the young squire had found it interesting. He was fifteen now, and while he had been catching wise words from the knight he was squired to, Sir Moor, the boy was more apt to listen to those words written by unknown writers who made less coin than a sewer jack for all their hard work.
Burke tapped the end of the pen against his prominent chin, until it actually started to hurt. Things always hurt worse when it was cold, he thought to himself. Then again, it had always been cold, so long as he could remember. The weather was cold, and the people were cold. Even as a knight and a nobleman, if of a dead kingdom, Burke was rarely received in a friendly manner. He was tall, and not in the way that a growing boy was, or even a handsome prince. Burke was freakishly tall, standing at nearly seven feet. Of course, height, and height alone didn’t make one an outcast. In fact, had that been the man’s only issue, Sir Oakley would have likely garnered the respect of his peers. Naturally, Burke, like all other men, was flawed, and with his luck, he was flawed in all the ways that others could notice and pick apart like vultures.