Honing the Steel

A rectangular slab of coarse whetstone lay flat across the workbench, dark with ancient traces of machine oil. I did not smash it. Instead, I planted my boots firmly on the scarred pine, lowered the flat bevel of my broadsword flush against the abrasive grit, and dragged the length of the blade backward under the full weight of my arms. A harsh, grinding rasp tore through the room. A clean silver trail of sheared steel dust scraped free along the stone's tooth, exposing a ruthless new bite upon the edge. Iron demands respect before blood is drawn. I inspected the honed steel and stood ready.