“Earn the right? How?” Dakshana asked.
The old man held out the knife. “Trust me. And trust yourself.”
Dakshana stared at the shining metal blade. It wasn’t stone or obsidian like the elders used, but metal, like the knife Chadstone had.
“Do you trust me?”
She looked at him.
“Do you trust what you are?”
She took the knife from him, and stared at it a little longer. Then, quick as a snake striking, she drove the blade into her thigh. It hurt. It burned viciously, but she forced herself to pull the blade out. And watch the wound close.
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