“A sword is a responsibility,” my mother says to me on my ascension day.

I’m accustomed to her chiding, her gentle correction of my childlike mistakes, but today her tone is serious. I’d grown up with tales of princesses on horseback, travelling the land, slaying the evils of the world, but now it’s time to leave adolescent fictions behind.

“A sword is power over others,” I reply in ritual response.

“And what will you do with that power?”

I’ve thought about my answer for months in preparation for this day, but I’m still unsure. Most of the older girls I knew settled on some variation of a call to arms, a declaration of their pure intent and determination. My best attempts all resounded with those childish fictions of good-and-evil. The words ring hollow in my heart and in my hand.

She sees my hesitation, and nods reassuringly.

“How will I guide my blade, if I cannot be sure?” I ask.

“Stand for those who have no power to wield, child. Leave this world knowing that you lifted those who had done no wrong, but had no other champion.”

I take the hilt as her words suffuse me. I am power. I am justice for the downtrodden, a voice for those without. This is right and proper and true.

It would be monstrous to wield such power and do otherwise.