The clanging from the village smithy, they say, is for forging ploughshares and horseshoes. But what I hear is the ringing of a knight's sword being sharpened on stone. Last night, I dreamt of a hand clad in a mail gauntlet, tracing the inside of my thigh. The rough metal mesh scraped against my most delicate skin, sending shivers of pain and searing heat. He used no brute force, merely existed there—hard, cold, threatening—pressed against my feverish flesh. Then the gauntlet vanished, leaving only the calloused palm, slowly, inexorably probing my depths, as if testing a scabbard forged for his blade alone. My body is not an anvil to be beaten upon; it is a dagger awaiting its sheath, existing only for the hand that knows how to wield it. He will make me yield with those hands—not through violence, but through a declaration of pure possession, stronger than my own will.