Harlan's thumb paused midway along the blade.
A sound escaped him—not quite a grunt, not quite a breath. It was something heavier. Something strained. Like recognition pulled from deep iron memory.
"…This," he muttered, his voice low and edged, "shouldn't look like this."
He turned the blade toward the light, the aetherlamps catching every ridge and hairline scar etched into the steel—not careless scratches, not jagged abuse. These were lines carved by survival. The metal bore them like old warriors bore scars: unapologetically.
Lucavion didn't flinch.
"She and I," he said calmly, "have seen our fair share of battles."
Harlan said nothing.
But he looked again.
Closer.
The marks weren't chaotic. They weren't from missed parries or mishandled swings. They were focused—layered into precise angles of defense, the kind you only see when someone knows their weapon, trusts it to take the blow.
