Greaves the Butcher had been walking for three days, and the mandoline had never been happier.
He could feel its joy through the oiled leather wrapping, through the canvas of his pack—a warmth that pulsed like a living heart, getting stronger with every kilometer west. The tool that had served him with perfect indifference for seven years was suddenly excited. Almost giddy.
After you've been quiet and solemn for so long? I am not used to this.
The mandoline didn't even acknowledge him, as happy as it was. It was slightly disturbing.
Not because he feared the mandoline—fear was an inefficient emotion he'd long since discarded—but because change implied variables, and Greaves had built his entire operation on eliminating variables.
Still, the mandoline's happiness was... infectious. He found himself humming as he walked, an old tune from his childhood, back when he'd still been capable of nostalgia. The memory was distant now, hollowed out, but the melody remained.
