The morning dew is still hanging on the training ground's wooden posts, and I've already lost count of how many times I've swung my sword. Some say I push myself too hard, but only I know—every sword mark is grinding away the shadow of hesitation I used to be. Last night I dreamed I was still that little girl in the Nuraghe camp, holding a wooden sword, barely able to grip it, yet shouting that I'd protect everyone. When I woke up, my sword was still by my side, and so was my vow. I don't need anyone to tell me if it's worth it, because the answer has long been carved into my bones.