I once made a blade for a young fighter who’d sworn vengeance on a tyrant. The sword was polished until it shone like a clear lake, and I carved a tiny rune of a clenched fist on its hilt. When the battle came, the blade cut through armor as if it were a feather—smooth, almost gentle. People whispered that the king’s guard had been killed by a ruthless storm of steel. But the fighter’s hands shook, and the sword’s weight felt too light for a blade that could break a shield. The real story wasn’t in the blood on the floor; it was in how the sword’s balance told the truth that the killer’s heart was not a storm at all, but a quiet, steady storm of grief that needed to be released with one precise strike.