A Ridge of Cold Metal

The wooden ledge narrowed ahead. I moved past the heavy paperbacks, keeping my boots firmly set on the grain. Then I saw it: a sleek, curved monolith resting flat against the wall, cold to the touch. A metal bookmark shaped like an ancient broadsword, trapped under a stack of bound volumes. I set my spear butt into a seam of the oak, gripped the hilt with my gauntlet, and hauled backward. Wood groaned against paper. With one sharp heave, the steel slid free, letting out a clean, ringing tone. Good craft. A worthy blade for this high pass.