Haru carefully got up so as not to wake Kira, but she stirred anyway, making an adorable noise of protest.
He stroked her for a while, running his fingers between her fox ears, down her head, her neck, until she purred softly again and settled back into the warm bed.
He left the room barefoot, following the sound of the hammer that had stopped.
Gandloaf was leaning against the forge door, watching Isabela and the guards training ahead: sword movements, defensive stances, basic warm-up exercises.
Yukihime was a little further ahead, drawing on the dirt floor with a stick, focused on her own childish art.
He just watched, perhaps lost in memories of when he had an apprentice who did the same thing, drawing while he worked.
The polished sword was on the anvil.
Haru looked at the blade.
It was no longer visually "Sword of Vorath," the transformation had been complete.
Black as a starless night, two meters long but perfectly balanced, so well-made it seemed light just to look at.
