"You hesitate," Kaelen said one evening. The forge was cooling, the orange glow dimming to a sullen red. He was wiping his hands on a leather apron, looking at the curved saber they had just finished. It was a beautiful weapon, light as a feather, deadly as a viper. "Your rhythm is perfect, Elara, but your soul is absent. You swing like a machine."
She brought it down.
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