∴ A Kindred Calling ∴
“It’s time,” she says.
For years you’ve trained for this moment, but she’s been preparing far longer. For every kindness, a caution. For every peal of laughter, a pertinent lesson.
She is kneeling beside you now, placing the plain wooden casket on the silk-strewn divan. She gestures for you to open it, and you hesitate, willing the dawn dark longer.
She places her battle-lined hand over yours, and together you draw back the lid. The daggers lie like ivy and oak, distinct yet bound by their very nature. Enchanted, you trace the silvery spiralling grips, the blackened swooping guards.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmur.
“And fatal,” she replies.