Yare slowly dragged the whetstone across his blade. Nara, tired from the journey, was slumped across a large root, her body heaving with her deep breaths. Yare knew his sword sharpening didn’t disturb her sleep—she had become used to the sound over the many years of traveling together. Even so, Yare tried to angle the blade away from her and soften the sound.
            Finally, he put down the whetstone and lifted his sword to the sky. It blinked in the moonlight. He tilted the angle and examined its edges. The blade was worn from overuse and had small nicks here and there, but overall, it was a solid blade. Yare had gone through so many swords through the years, and knew their lifetimes. This one, he figured, would be unusable within a few months.
            Yare sheathed the blade, and placed it gently against his pack. Leaning against a tree, he adjusted his uncomfortable seat on the ground and stared into the warm flames of the campfire. An owl called out solemnly to the sky.
            He shouldn’t fall asleep. Nara always told him it was okay if he slept, because they were so far into the wilderness that it was doubtful a raider would find them. But Yare didn’t want to take any chances. He absolutely wouldn’t let their campsite go undefended. So he sat, staring into the fire, and letting it hypnotize him as he daydreamed of the next day of journeying, and what difficulties it would bring.