|Found on Google Images, I own nothing.|
“Master.” She entered the room and knelt by the door, a newly polished, silverblade knife in her hands. It would seem out of place anywhere else, but atop her slender, elegant fingers.
The blacksmith turned with a half smile, one bright eye showing his approval, the eyepatch twitching as his face did. “You’ve done me proud, Ariel.” He rumbled. “You may keep the knife. You crafted it in fire and ice in a thankless time. The blade will always answer to you.”
Her head bowed, scarlet curls dancing around her cheeks, a hint of a blush present. It was the first genuine compliment he had ever gifted her in the five years since her apprenticeship. “Thank you kindly, Master.” She murmured.
“Get to work.” He grunted, turning back to the anvil.
She bowed in answer and rose to her feet. The precious knife was sheathed in the holder strapped to her left thigh, hidden by the long tunic. She’d known this knife was hers since she’d hammered it out in the morning chill so many weeks ago.
So had her master, apparently.
(c) Sara Harricharan