Chapter 8: A Blade That Watches Back
The sword on the rack didn't shine.
It wasn't wrapped in velvet or balanced on a wall mount. No inlaid gems. No crest. Just old steel, dulled with time and use. Its handle was worn smooth in the center, as if it had been passed through a hundred palms that all knew what death looked like.
Leon took it without asking permission.
He stepped into the training ring, one foot dragging slightly from yesterday's bruises. The ache in his back hadn't faded, and the fresh split on his palm throbbed beneath the bandages. But he tightened his grip on the blade anyway and brought it to his shoulder.
The weight bit down his arm.
He hadn't trained with real steel in this body yet. It pulled differently—slower, less forgiving than ironwood, heavier than anything he'd swung in two years. The first swing dragged through the air like a sack of bricks tied to a hinge.
He corrected. Reset his feet.
Again.
The blade sang against wind on the next strike. Not fast, but cleaner.
Then again.
His muscles burned faster than usual. Five swings in and his shoulders screamed. But the longer he kept going, the more the balance started making sense. The blade stopped fighting him.