A sword is a tool for killing. It was the first lesson Chase taught him. When she first brought him to that cave in the Deep South and handed him a blade, she told him, “Listen boy. A sword is no instrument of justice. It’s not a work of art for you to marvel and stare at. It’s a weapon. A tool to rob someone of their life.”

And then she swung. Now, outside the city of Bala’am he swung the sword of his own accord. A simple slashing sword, but in his hands an arc of death. The city guard always watched with equal measures of fear and wonder. But then again, it was only natural. He was an open solar. A Dawn caste. One of the Swords of Heaven, a Lightbringer, one of the greatest warriors to walk creation.

According to Chase, his skill with a weapon was something that was strange even amongst the Dawns. The way he could pick up any weapon and know it inside and out baffled her. His talent with a bow, his fists, they made much more sense to her. Teaching him to shoot accurately, throw stronger punches and kicks, that was the easy part. Even thrown weapons came easily to him. It was his mind where things became challenging.

Chase had claimed that teaching him to read had been like trying to teach a rock to fly.  It still made him mad, even after he learned to read the words he had spoken all of his life. Now, out in the sands, that same rage had returned. Ruvula and Ash had told him that the grown-ups were talking. That they’d call him when they needed something broken or killed.

He let out a growl and his anima flared, essence coalescing on the edge of his blade. With one swing the essence flew forth like a violent bolt of light, an angry streak of gold and red tearing across the sands until it met a palm tree along the road, causing the poor tree to splinter and break apart as it was struck.

The city guard dispersed quickly. They always found an excuse to be busy if he lost his temper, a common occurrence during his training. As golden and red light cascaded off of him, he took a moment to try and clear his mind. The smell of spring, the sound of the wind on the sands, the sun beating down on him.

It was a strange sort of peace. The desert was harsh, inhospitable, cruel and merciless. And yet it was where he felt most at home. He thought to the tattoos on his back and smiled. As he removed his armor and rolled his shoulders, sweat gleaming on his back against the lines of orichalcum that shone in the sun, Steel Given Shape let out a relieved sigh. He was wild at heart. It was nothing to be ashamed of.