Greaves the Butcher had been walking for three days, and the mandoline had never been happier.
He could feel it through the oiled leather wrapping, through the canvas of his pack—a warmth that pulsed like a living heart. The tool that had served him with cold efficiency for seven years was suddenly eager. Almost playful.
It disturbed him. Not because he feared the mandoline—fear was an inefficient emotion—but because change implied variables he couldn't control. And Greaves had built his entire life on control.
The eastern road wound through farmland giving way to forest. He'd passed two villages already, stopping only long enough to buy bread and dried meat. The innkeepers had tried to make conversation, curious about a lone traveler carrying a butcher's pack. He'd given them nothing. Words were wasted effort.
But the mandoline. The mandoline wanted to talk.
