The first rays of dawn bled through the cheap, grimy window of the inn, painting a single, dusty stripe of gold across the wooden floor. I woke to the sharp, rhythmic sound of steel on whetstone. Eren was already awake, bathed, and dressed, his back to me as he sat on the edge of his bed, meticulously polishing the blade of his family's ancestral sword. The light caught the silver of his hair, making it seem to glow.
He must have sensed me stirring, because he paused, his movements ceasing for a moment. "Morning," he said, his voice a low, quiet rumble that was a stark contrast to his usual boisterous energy. "Sleep well?"
"Like a corpse," I replied, my own voice a rough, gravelly thing as I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "You're up early."
"Force of habit," he said, returning to his work. "A blade is an extension of the self. It must be cared for."
I simply grunted in response, my mind already a whirlwind of plans and contingencies for the day ahead.
