The blade is no more than a finger’s width, the hilt merely leather-wrapped dowelling. With great care, I kneel and touch it lightly to the brow of my chosen knight.

“Arise, Sir Mittens,” I murmur, with an attempt at gravitas. “Defender of the Realm.”

Mittens makes a little “mrrp” and rubs her cheek against the crossguard, then trots off down the street, radiant in her new-found duty.

May she serve us faithfully, and with honour.