Just like that, the only thing in Fridok's life that mattered to him was gone. He held the pieces of the blade in his hands, staring at them in disbelief. The registrar was right - Fridok was sold a poorly made weapon. What a fool he had been. All of the coins he had starved himself to stash away for so many years might as well have been thrown over the wall. The blade had failed when he needed it most. He lost, and now, despite the fact that the Son had taken pity on him, his inclusion was a consolation and nothing more. He was a warrior without a weapon, and outside of charity, there would be no way for him to afford another.
