Attraction.

Goddesses, is that what it feels like?

Why now? Why him?

But the sword isn’t done with me yet. I can feel it. So I press on.

“I would rather die than talk to a stranger one-on-one. I can build the fiercest weapons the world has ever seen, but force me to talk about something other than weaponry with people I don’t know, and I won’t survive. But I long to have someone in my life. Someone to share my burdens with. Someone to love.”

The secrets of my soul.

“I want my parents back so fiercely. If I ever find out who murdered them, I will kill them myself.”

That one surprises me, even as I say it. Because it’s true.

I abhor violence. I make my magical weapons to discourage violence. Only a fool would cross swords with a magical blade.

And yet, if I were to learn who took my parents from me, all those beliefs about violence would go right out the window.

Truth after truth spills from my lips, rushing out of me and into the sword. I don’t know how long I stand there. Hours maybe? But my voice turns raspy, the flames die down, and my mind feels so serene. As if the sword has taken the burden of my secrets upon itself.

When I can think of no more to say, I thrust the blade into a bucket of water. The liquid instantly evaporates, and I have to jump back from the onslaught of steam or be burned by it. The bucket cracks in two, and the sword drops from my grip.

The glaring white glow is so intense for a moment, I have to shield my eyes. When that subsides, I can do no more than stare at the sword, watching it hum from the dirt floor.

I do not fear it exactly, but something about this weapon feels different than the others I’ve made. Perhaps because I put more of myself into it? It’s heavier than it was when it only consisted of steel, the weight of my secrets adding to the bulk of it.

Cradling the weapon to my side, I leave the forge once the sword cools, taking it to our small backyard. It’s usually filled with straw dummies and wooden planks for my customers to test their new blades. I haven’t replaced the last batch yet, so I settle for the single tree that provides some shade.

When I come to a stop in front of the large cedar, I hold the broadsword in both hands, cock back the weapon, and swing toward the trunk.

Many things happen simultaneously. I lose my grip on the sword. A powerful force knocks me onto my back in the tall grass, and a cracking sound shatters my ears, followed by wind whistling through leaves, and a loud crash.

When I rise to my feet, I find the tree on the ground, severed all the way through right where I’d struck the trunk, which had been at least four feet wide. Thank goodness it missed the house! The surrounding grass lies flat, as though a fierce wind bent everything ninety degrees.