“A storm sword, of course,” he said to himself. He flicked the metal with a finger and bent his ear over it as if listening for a heartbeat. Next, he tapped it with his hammer in the same fashion before finally gripping the hilt, even though he could not hope to lift it. “Yes,” he said as though he’d come to some great revelation, “attuned for lightning. Its wielder reached the rank of Lord. Gray-blue was its color in life. Five and a half days it took to create, if I’m not mistaken – a difficult one. Ambitious, driven.”
For seven days and seven nights, he had flown to Windshear Hold. For nine days and nine nights, he had labored to rebuild Sovereign’s core. For twelve days and twelve nights, he hammered steel, freeing long-caged fears, pouring himself into the metal as he did Sovereign’s magic. His own hatreds became the mortar which bound magic and iron together.
He met her gaze with a frown. Talia drew her weapon and placed it next to Silas’, and the Smith repeated his examination on her sword. “Fire, of course, and young. Still tuned to an Ascendant. Three days and two hours it took to craft. Quick learning. Keen, yes, but torn, unsure, guarded.” He looked to her now as though greeting an old friend. “The sword of Talia Agravain. I remember.”
Their third night at the forge wore on. Twice, now, Holt had reached the folding stage. Twice the steel had snapped.
The body of the blade was pristine white. Every fold he’d struggled to make shone in rippling layers of silver. Thinner than Brode’s broad blade, yet thicker than Ethel’s icy point. Solid. Sturdy. Dependable. His own.
(i think this is as good of analysis as we will get of holt through his craftsmanship. it makes sense to be perfect/exclusively positive rather than a mirror into some of holt's questionable qualities. it is the manifestation of his and ash's sturdy bond where clesh was oppressive and pyra hadn't fully committed to the bond yet and osric is merely thrall's slave.)
Holt hammered, and the blade took shape. No folding this time. The lunar steel was already perfect, accepting their magic as willingly as Ash had once accepted Holt on a cold, straw-strewn floor. Within the nightscape the blade took form, white as cream, smooth as porcelain, radiant as the stars, and when the ghost-blade rose to join the constellations, Holt knew the real sword to be done.
this may not come up naturally or help the flow of the story, but if we won't get it in part 5, i will shamelessly pester miller about the making of nox&osric's
