Sharpening

The swordsmith looked up from his forge. "Ohe, the White Knife. "

"Master smith, sharpen my steel." He laid the blade across his arm and offered it hilt first.

The smith took it and inspected it. "Sharp enough as it is. If you're hitting armor, you'll likely notch it, if you put a fine edge on it. You'd notch a normal blade, anyway; I don't know about this one."

Mack leaned forward, the glow of the forge deepening the shadows under his eyes. "Sharpen it. Put an edge on it as fine as the line between never was and never will be. Make it cut like lies and false hopes. Sharpen it!"