Names were given after observation.
Swords were given immediately.
Yeon-seo learned this the morning she turned eight.
The hall was warmer than the courtyard, but only because the doors were sealed tight against the wind. Incense burned low along the walls, its scent sharp enough to sting the eyes. The elders sat in a half-circle, their expressions indistinguishable beneath years of discipline. Children stood before them in a straight line, backs rigid, hands folded, eyes lowered.
Yeon-seo stood third from the left.
She had not been told why she was summoned. No one was ever told. Understanding was earned afterward.
An elder rose and gestured. A disciple stepped forward carrying a long, narrow box. The lid was lifted.
Steel caught the lantern light.
Not a training blade.
A real sword.
It was shorter than a standard Plum Blossom weapon, its guard simple, its scabbard undecorated. Practical. Unassuming. The kind of blade meant to be used rather than admired.
The elder's voice cut through the silence.
"A sword is not a reward," he said. "It is a responsibility. You carry it because you will one day be required to choose."
He gestured to the first child in line.
The sword was presented. The child accepted it with both hands, bowed deeply, and stepped back. No smile. No tremor. Approval was not shown, but mistakes were remembered.
One by one, swords were distributed.
When Yeon-seo's turn came, she stepped forward and knelt.
The elder studied her for a long moment.
"You," he said, "have endured the cold without complaint."
Yeon-seo remained silent.
"You have not asked why."
Silence again.
"You have not cried."
The sword was lowered into her hands.
The weight surprised her. Heavier than the wooden blade. Colder. The scabbard's chill seeped into her palms as if testing her grip, her resolve.
"Stand," the elder ordered.
She rose, the sword held correctly, angled slightly downward. Her arms shook—not from fear, but from unfamiliar mass.
"You will carry this blade," he said. "You will learn to use it without haste. Without hatred. Without mercy."
His gaze sharpened.
"Mercy is for those who can afford to hesitate."
A murmur passed faintly through the hall. Not disagreement. Recognition.
The elder turned away.
"Names will be assigned when your conduct warrants permanence," he continued. "Until then, you are disciples. Nothing more."
Yeon-seo bowed.
"Yes, Elder."
As she stepped back into line, the sword tapped lightly against her leg. The sound was soft, but it echoed in her chest. She had been given something that could end lives before she was trusted to be called by one.
That night, she sat alone in the dormitory, the sword laid across her knees. Moonlight filtered through the paper window, silvering the steel.
She unsheathed it slightly.
The blade was clean. Unmarked. Waiting.
She thought of the plum tree in the courtyard. Of petals falling onto frozen stone. Of a bloom that arrived without permission.
Slowly, carefully, she slid the sword back into its scabbard.
A blade, she understood, was not meant to ask whether it should be drawn.
Only whether it would endure the consequences.