Vesuria’s mom had insisted on forging Ves her first and very own sword. By then she’d already started training her in smithing tools, and Ves proposed teaming up for it. They’d tried a few, but eventually her mom slapped her knees and raised her hands. Not impatient with Ves, but not wanting her to go without any longer.
“Any sword from the Order will be strong,” she’d said, “but it won’t be mine. When you’re better at your craft, you can improve it.”
Fire giants were fast and exquisite crafters, but also long-lived. They could make twice the weapon in half the time, but they valued the strength and longevity of something crafted with patience. Nothing was too insignificant to shape into a work of art as beautiful as it was potent.
With her mom’s other weapons and machines taking priority, it took her about a week. It would’ve taken longer if it weren’t a shortsword.
Her mom knelt and offered it to her, her smile radiant. Hot flinders from her hair darted out like a snake’s tongue, dissolving before they could bite. Ves admired the sword; in her mom’s hands it looked no bigger than a butter knife, but it was bespoke to Vesuria’s fingers. Its brass blade was straight and keen as an arrow and the crossguard swaddled a single red gemstone. It wasn’t an enchanted sword, but the moment felt magic. Any dredges of disappointment at not being able to help evaporated.
Her mom had always taken extra precautions with Vesuria. When Ves was born, she spent all of her time not at full size, a fact she recounted warmly. She always watched her step at home, would palm Ves out of the way of danger or shield her with her body. Her prosthetic limb was a testament to her love, protecting her purely on instinct—but also a testament to Vesuria’s forever foolishness.
“Curiosity is a virtue in a child,” she’d said, eyes flaring bright. “There’s no need to mourn my arm. I would sacrifice it again and more.”
Ves sometimes wondered if her fire genasi mother resented her for her mom’s lost arm. It was an ugly, intrusive thought, and didn’t paint her mother in the most generous light. She’d never had the courage to ask, only wonder.
Ves lifted the sword and swooped it in a figure eight. It was light as an arrow, too. Her heart soared.
“We don’t usually train with real swords,” she said with a grin.
“I know.” Her mom chucked her lightly under the chin. “But you will use it. Wield it well, my firefly.”
Campfire smoke gusted into her eyes and she blinked out of her memories. It didn’t sting—not as much as it should have. The inhale reminded her of home, of the aftertaste of bellowing out fire.
Ves shuffled further down the log, resuming wiping down her shortsword. The smoke followed, leaden particles giving chase to fan across her and dive up her nose. Maybe it would absorb or replace the lingering blood smell. Varis had cleared most of the blood from her clothes using magic, but she wanted to take care of the sword. It deserved maintenance even as every cloth stroke reminded her of its maker. A hot iron poker got her somewhere between the ribs anytime she thought about it for more than a second; she was resistant to fire, not immune.
Ves held the sword up to the light, batting away smoke. She’d never named it even though her mom suggested it, gave names to all her machines—even if later they took on mortal souls that likely already had names. She flipped through ideas: sverd would be funny if nobody knew Giant. Hjerte for heart, maybe—no, that endearment belonged to her mother. Treasure? She sheathed it and tapped a nail against the scabbard.
Ettin, maybe. An affectionate nickname from some older members of the order. Runt.
