Sharp

ㅤ Spada sat in the estate's garden, leaning his back against the trunk of a flowering tree, looking at his hand raised to the sky, barely visible through the dense canopy. Once again, his brothers had plotted against him; once again, he had fought back. Once again… he alone had been reprimanded. Nevertheless, Spada grinned, stood proudly, and bowed his head to no one. This only further incited his brothers' hatred. Spada was never at a loss for words, which led Hartman to once remark: "Your tongue and gaze are as sharp as the swords in your hands. But how about sharpening your spirit?" Then he began to intensively teach Spada knightly honor. These teachings were close to Spada, although they did not improve his personality in any way. To the rustling of leaves above his head and the play of light and shadow from them, Spada lowered his hand and clenched and unclenched his fist in front of him. The body obeyed perfectly, every movement was felt. With each dream, Spada tried to understand how he felt equally natural in the form of a sword and in the form of a man. He noted the flaws and the strengths. Hands and the human body were indeed capable of much, but defeating opponents without tools was something few could do: knuckles were fragile and easily broken. A sword, however, was strong and sharp in its own right. True, it still required the support of a capable wielder... Durandal was fortunate to become Asura's comrade in arms. Spada felt uneasy without a blade... And one wasn't enough: he wanted more, sharper, stronger! But a human only had two arms, and Spada had never learned to fight with weapons in his teeth and legs. Two blades were his maximum. And although being a sword and being a man were two completely different things, in battle he moved furiously, as if he himself had become a blade once again. More agile and faster. No one was his master anymore; he fought on his own, as he chose. Not a moment's hesitation. And only sometimes, cooling down after the heat of battle, he thought, what would his swords want? But they were silent. They lacked a soul, as Durandal had; Spada imbued them with it himself, strengthening the bond. They were not someone else, but a part of him. The more often he dreamed, the longer he lived, the more the line between the essence of the sword and the essence of the man blurred. At some point, it became completely indifferent. The same. His gaze, his tongue, his soul was sharp and never dulled. ㅤ