Aethon's fingers trembled as he pressed them against his temples, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The world around him was a storm of noise, each sound a jagged edge scraping against his frayed nerves. Every scream ,laughter,chuckles, whimpers,even the smallest sound in his surroundings would bring him closer to losing his sanity.
The clatter of carts over cobblestones was a hammer striking an anvil inside his skull.
The murmur of merchants haggling over prices became a swarm of insects, their voices buzzing, biting, relentless.
A child's whimper, weak with hunger, cut deeper than any blade—a high, keening note that refused to fade, vibrating in his bones like a plucked wire.
He would snap at children whom he had always smiled at before, became secluded,and avoided people,while many might have thought he had gone mad from his misery, aethon in fact has more resistance to insanity than most his predecessor who has wielded the sword.
The Reaper's Fang pulsed at his side, its dark energy writhing like a living thing. The whispers that had once been a distant murmur were now a deafening roar, slithering through his mind, twisting his thoughts into knots.
Then came the smells.
Blood from a butcher's stall. Sweat from a laborer's brow. The sour tang of fear from a pickpocket caught mid-theft.
Aethon gagged.
"You feel them now," the sword murmured. "Their misery. Their terror. Their pain. This is what power tastes like."
He fled into the woods, desperate for silence. But the forest was worse.
The rustle of leaves was a thousand hissing tongues. The scent of pine needles stung like poison. When his boot crushed a beetle underfoot, its death echoed inside him—a tiny, shrill scream.
Aethon collapsed against a tree, gasping.
"Make it stop," he begged.
The sword laughed.
"Why would I? This is what you wanted, your innermost desire, To be strong....
Now suffer what strength costs."
his body visibly shaking as he grabs the hilt of his sword
A hand on his shoulder. A voice, soft but firm.
"is anything the problem kiddo?"