Marron noticed the difference most clearly when she stopped trying to feel it.
She was in the training hall early—earlier than required, earlier than anyone sensible chose to be there. The stone floor still held the night's chill, and the air smelled faintly of oil and old sweat. Sunlight hadn't reached the high windows yet; everything was gray and flat and honest.
She stood alone in the center of the space and drew the Blade.
The motion itself was familiar. Smooth. Practiced. Her body knew the weight, the angle, the way the hilt settled into her palm.
What it did not know was the silence.
Not absence—she was learning the difference—but restraint. The Blade no longer leaned into her awareness. It didn't sharpen her focus or align her breath. It didn't offer micro-adjustments or anticipatory tension.
It simply… existed.
Marron held it out in front of her, turning it slowly.
