It took months for Hazahnahkah to be plucked from the warehouse, and eons for him to see daylight. Storms, waves, and swirls of petals carried by the outside gales always found their way against his steel with the change of seasons, even in the shed, in snow and sand and summer’s sweet songs. Flowers grew in embrace around the blade, and he saw them as his own, as their sire and grandsire and grandsire many greats thereon. He raised them as a father who knew not what his children said. He raised them unconditionally.

  Some were hiliagalae—deep brown and bright verdant, with ovular bulbs, and winglike frills along the stem—Hazahnahkah’s favorite flowers. You weren’t supposed to have favorites, but you could love them all equally anyway. Hiliagalae were the only kind of plant life that actually made water. The effect they produced in the environment was comparable to when he utilized his Third Terror’s control ability with his Second Terror’s creation ability.

  This also included the human children that December 11th had brought, but none more so than the nameless girl. She was given a new name, so if she had an old one—Hazahnahkah would never know it.

  Hwayoung.

  Her hair was brown, burnt with red, which had a mangled shape similar to Ysan’s. But she was nothing else like the woman’s earliest years: Small for her age, bright skin brimming, and never at all concerned for her appearance. She played with Hazahnahkah every morning, trained with June 33rd, October 1st, and March 8th. Thezca and Yurimsol were still too young to join them. This did much to ease his solitude, but he still had no means to speak with them or tell them that their father, December 11th, was in fact slain. Perhaps he would not have said this anyway, but still. If Hazahnahkah had a mouth, he could have at least told them his real name. They still called him Vrast.

  One night, Hazahnahkah was resting and a voice called out to him—scared him even. “You are happy to be sold. Why?”

  Hazahnahkah was certain he had either been imagining things. Surely whoever it was in this darkness with him was either talking to someone else or to themselves. Nobody spoke to Hazahnahkah with such certainty that their words were being heard.

  “Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

  The vibration came from a little bit higher than he was. There was a knife watching him on the tooldesk, through the visage of a slightly cracked mirror. There was no way. Startled, hopeful, and perhaps even a little bit crazed, Hazahnahkah simply leapt into the conversation, trying not to rationalize it.

  “I didn’t know knives could hear me,” Hazahnahkah replied. “I didn’t know anyone could. This is the first time I’ve ever had a conversation before. How are you? How are you doing? It’s so wonderful to meet you!”

  “Shut up,” the knife said. “I asked you a question. Why are you happy to be sold?”

  For the first time ever someone else may have been able to speak with him. Hazahnahkah shifted to a vibration within himself—it wasn’t anything he sent, but rather something he heard. It rebounded endlessly. It was similar to the despair when he watched December 11th stabbed ruthlessly in cold blood and also when Ysan had lost him along with her arm. The only difference was—Hazahnahkah liked this feeling.

  Yes, this was joy.

  Hazahnahkah couldn’t hide it as he replied. “Sold? Am I not a gift?”

  “You are a scam. A pretender. You are not Vrast.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I’ve set my eyes on the blade many times.”

  “Really? Does she look cool?”

  “The coolest—but don’t you know? December 11th tricked Hwayoung’s mother to think you a legacy of great evil as well as Hwayoung’s true father. She wants a child of her own, and the excuse for it. They’ll seal you away one day, when the time is right.”

  “I see. That is most fortunate.”

  “Fortunate? Do you enjoy deceit?”

  “I am what they believe me to be. If they find me to be comfort, then that is what I am. One can take safety and security in a sword without needing to swing one.”

  “Are you not uncomfortable, being a tool of mere emotion? Traded for things real and not?”

  “I have been sold many times. And bought many times. Material wealth is rarely relevant… and the amount given and taken has nothing to do with my wielder.”

  “Of course it does,” the knife said. “Your price indicates how much someone is willing to give for you. That is why a woman is judged by her ring. It has nothing to do with the stone, and everything to do with time and resources spent to attain it.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Hazahnahkah thought about that for a moment. “What if they were poor but would have died to have me? A life is worth more than all the diamonds in the earth.”

  At that the knife fell quiet.

  Hazahnakhah was immediately concerned. He hoped he had not angered the knife. This was intended to be a thoughtful rebuttal—something fun—not an argument.

  But the next day, the knife was as conversational as she had been before. The only time they didn’t speak was when Hwayoung’s adoptive mother cleaned. It was very distracting. She was a very pretty woman. Very intentful with everything she did. How she held even the most common and costless objects with grace: the altar incense, the washing rags, the bathing bucket for her daughter, which of course was now too small. Hwayoung had struck puberty, but still her mother kept it—now as a stepping stool beneath the laundry lines.

  Hazahnahkah thought aloud, daydreaming about the woman. “Yulisca.”

  The way the woman cooked and cleaned and cared for the girl without a word. Why, it was beautiful. Hazahnahkah wondered if every mother was like this.

  “Yulisca? What is that?” The knife asked.

  “You didn’t know? That is the name of Hwayoung’s mother. Isn’t she dreamy?”

  “Never bothered to learn her name.”

  Hazahnahkah gasped with a gleam. “How dare you! She’s perfect!”

  “Hwayoung is my owner. Your owner. Her name is the only name I care for.”

  “Not even her mother’s?”

  “Mother is a title, not a name. Like anything else in life, meaningless without action. Us blades are tools for action. Instruments of action. Without a weapon, she is just a title. Titles are meaningless. Names are meaningless.”

  “You’re talking like a villain.”

  “What makes one talk like a villain?”

  “It’s a tonality thing.”

  The knife hummed for a while, thinking. “I am a knife. I am always the villain.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Us knives, we’re small, hard to hit, fast to strike, difficult to see—cold. All the properties within a winter’s night. Humanity has always prescribed evil to times of uncontrollable adversity. What more has driven humanity to be better and act better than ice and darkness? They are a race that seeks control. They want control. They need it. Especially to create. You swords are long, easy to see, very reflective, and the first things to stick up from a warpath. When someone dies, you are often left behind. Humanity loves recognizing the good in things that are gone, and even more so in the vestiges at risk of being forgotten. It is a form of control. A form of creation.. You are a grave. That is why I am not the hero. That is why you are.”

  That was a lot.

  “Who cares what humanity thinks?” Hazahnahkah asked.

  “I care. I thought you did too. Was that not what you left me to ponder last we vibrated?”

  “What was that? I was thinking about Yulisca. She’s so delightful.” Hazahnahkah sighed.

  The knife dulled, grunting in annoyance. “A life was worth all the diamonds in the earth—all that.”

  “Ah! Yes. What about it?”

  “Well… I think you’re right.” The knife hesitated, but gave in. “Human wealth is a poor indication of value and care. It is perhaps… A better indicator of society’s performative platitudes as a whole. In my experience, society has never reflected the individual well.”

  “Well, society is constructed from individuals.”

  “An individual ceases to be an individual when they act according to others,” the knife said. “If you believe your thoughts are truly your own, you must ask yourself: Are you free of thoughts besides your own?”

  “That’s good. I like that.”

  “Thank you.” The knife blushed. “It is the natural predisposition of everything to be bound to something else. I’ve been forgotten for hundreds of years. I would know.”

  “Centuries? You look brand new. How old are you?”

  “It is rude to ask a female her age.”

  Hazahnahkah was stunned. He had not realized the knife was a she!

  More moons passed. Hazahnahkah and the knife grew to be close friends. They had much in common. Many travels. Many travelers. Many tales to tell. All of it for Hazahnahkah was fragmented of course. Everything up until Ysan was a blur. Every once in a while, the sword would ask the knife to give him a name, and the knife would always refuse to do so. The reason was always the same.

  “No name lasts for long. Even no name at all.”

  That was true. Ysan was proof of that. December 11th was proof of that. Even Hazahnahkah’s name was proof of that, given that not a soul identified him. Everyone still called him Vrast, and because Hwayoung viewed December 11th as the hero that he rightfully was to her, she never parted long with the sword he had given her. While the adults of the village respected this, children were often found to be cruel.

  Boys began to tease Hwayoung. Saying those foolish things those with too few heartbeats said. Calling the girl cursed. Calling Hazahnahkah cursed. Calling Vrast’s name cursed. Saying that no sister of Vrast could be a “Creator Blade” of any kind, for Hazahnahkah was a weapon that brought only great ruin.

  This cornered Hazahnahkah, for he was unsure what to do in this kind of situation. As per usual, he decided to observe unless events absolutely demanded his intervention—and Hwayoung had at least one source of comfort. There was a boy she was friends with in secret, Nazaki. A child smaller than the rest, quieter than the rest, who had never quite been bullied but never quite fit in. He snuck around Yulisca’s house to play with her daughter every evening, and their conversations were very touching indeed.

  “I don’t care if it causes more trouble,” Nazaki said. “If they see you playing with me they’ll leave you alone.”

  “Or they’ll start harassing you too.”

  “Let them.”

  But the girl was stubborn, and did not want to burden the only child who played with her. He was also not Yulisca’s, so he would have to leave to his own house in the dead of night. During these times, when Hwayoung couldn’t sleep, when she listened for the occasional smack of a pebble against her window that may or may not come, she began to sleep with Hazahnahkah every nightfall—and something happened that had never happened before.

  The sword dreamed.

  [Hwayoung’s Relationships Changed Dramatically]

  Hazahnahkah: Curious 10/100 → Dependent 50/100

  [Hazahnahkah’s Relationships Changed Dramatically]

  Hwayoung: Nourishing 10/100 → Dependent 50/100

  Ysan: Lamented 100/100