"Send me the script," Elara said. "And tell your director I don’t rehearse dialogue after 7 p.m. I save my fury for the camera."

Elara looked down at her hands. They were still strong. The knuckles still ached. But the ache, she realized, wasn’t pain. It was memory. Muscle memory. The phantom grip of a sword, a steering wheel in a getaway car, a lover’s jaw in a film that had won her the Oscar she kept in the guest bathroom because it felt ridiculous to display.

Elara read the line. Then she read it again. Then she spoke it aloud to the empty room, her voice low and frayed at the edges—not old, just seasoned. Like oak. Like a blade that had been sharpened too many times and was now, finally, exactly the right weight.