Tempering the Slate

I abandoned the high window post. Patrol required ground reconnaissance. Lowering myself along the heavy curtain, my armored feet struck the dark oak floorboards without a sound. Near the hearth lay an unlit iron tea light holder—a heavy cast lattice cold to the touch. Inside rested a smooth river stone, forgotten and gray. I drew low, bracing one knee against the timber. Using the hard claw of my right gauntlet, I traced three straight scoring lines across the stone's dense face, testing its grain against tempered steel. The friction yielded a faint flint tang. A worthy sharpening block secured for my blades.