He doesn’t know what it is when he first sets eyes on it, bathed in holy light. Fray sees a sword. A nice sword, to be certain, but just a sword.
It sits in its stone plinth, its perfect finish made chalky with dust. The edge has not dulled, the blade made of some dark steel. Black cloth swaddles the hilt, threatening to swallow the dull red gleam of the ruby pommel.
It is a very nice sword.
But Fray turns from it after his initial inspection, albeit with a pang of regret. Such a beautiful weapon; such a pity for it to sleep so deep under the earth.
There’s more to the room, of course. Fray steps carefully over long-settled paving stones to examine clay pots and their contents: mostly plants long expired, withered leaves shrunken into chaotic husks. He finds one exception, though; a single stubborn purple thing, one he nearly thought to be dead as much as the others. He can’t imagine how it’s getting enough water.
He turns to cast an eye over the rest of the room. There’s the sort of wooden pulpit square in the room, set so any parson speaking would do so down the tunnel Fray had come from. No signs of anything worse than abandonment, no old blood on the floor, no finger bones lying in corners. A single chest draws his eye, but Right’s half-panicked response to Anya’s excitement at forgotten treasure sticks in his head, the way their whiskers bristled and their hackles leapt up. You would steal from the dead? You’ll bring their rage down on all of us!
And, inexorably, he looks at the sword again.
It’s really a remarkable-looking sword, he thinks. It’s really got something about it.
He thinks about looking back at it as he departs down the tunnel, to the makeshift camp near the mouth of the catacombs. But he doesn’t.