Every time I heat a blade, I imagine the story it will carry. The steel remembers the forge, the hammer, the purpose it’ll serve. A sword can be a quiet reminder of a lone wanderer’s courage or a bright flash of a king’s triumph. I carve its edge with that thought—so when it cuts, it whispers the tale I set for it. It’s not just metal; it’s a memory made sharp.

I’ve learned that a blade’s story is written by the hand that wields it, not by me alone. Still, when the pattern of expectation grows too tight, I step back, look at the raw iron, and let the forge itself decide what shape it needs. That’s how I keep from being bound to a single tale.