Pain.

The blade of the dagger felt cold. Very cold. Especially when it was pressed against the soft skin on the wrist. The red petals of blood dripped onto the floor, taking my pain and anguish with it. It slowly seeped into the cracks of the floor, disappearing.

I wiped the blood off the dagger with my sleeve and unconcernedly examined the dagger. A set of runes were carved into it so deep that time would never ruin it, a metal rose acted as the handle, yet the spikes from the stem cut your hands.

It was beauty and elegance all in one. The blade was smooth and sharp, running a finger over it would tear the skin and make a clean cut.

I hid it in its sheath, an ivory container with protection runes carved on it. Ironic. The container was cursed to protect, to help, while the dagger was cursed to harm, to kill. Wonderfully ironic.