The Weight of a Name
Idra could always tell when a blade had been carried by a coward. The steel came back lighter.
It was the first thing her mother taught her and the last thing she wanted to be true, because the sword on the anvil this morning belonged to the Margrave, and it weighed almost nothing at all.
She set it in the fire anyway. The forge took its price as it always did — one memory for every blade, chosen by the metal, not by her. She had lost the sound of her father’s laugh to a spearhead when she was nineteen. She had lost the name of her first horse to a hunting knife.
The Margrave’s sword glowed white, then blue, then a colour she had no word for, and Idra understood that this time it wanted something larger.