The judge gave a single nod. His voice, calm but firm, carried through the hushed arena.
"We begin with sharpness."
A soldier dragged forward a bundle of straw, bound tight with three heavy ropes, and set it upright. The judge hefted the apprentice's sword, testing its weight with a few practiced swings. For a breath he stilled—then the blade sang through the air.
The sound was unlike any other cut before it, a clean whistle that sliced the silence itself. In a single effortless stroke, the sword sheared through straw and rope alike. The bundle collapsed into two perfect halves.
Gasps tore through the stands, followed by shouts that tumbled over one another in disbelief. The roar swelled like a storm breaking over the arena. Some smiths cursed aloud, their faces flushed with fury, unable to reconcile what they had just witnessed.
Howen's jaw clenched, his knuckles whitening around the handle of his hammer. By the forge gods… it cut through as if it were nothing.
