the knife
1.3.2the family's only edge
the household's only edge, and it casts from the one gauge vanilla already drew: your health bar. use it and the knife looses a bolt — not a thrown copy of the blade, never that. the knife stays in your hand; what flies is a needle of gold light, paid for with half a heart of your own blood, a thin bright thread through the air with one dark bead of red riding it. the knife will bleed you to your last heart and refuses past it.
a bolt that lands is a key, not a kill. the scratch opens a seam on the wounded thing — a hairline door of light only knife-holders can see, held open a few breaths, wider for heavier wounds. land yours and you alone hear the quiet dink of the door opening. use again while it stands and you step through the cut — instant, line-of-sight, already paid for. hesitate and the door closes, and you walk like everyone else, half a heart poorer.
the kill only ever happens in arm's reach: the knife on a seam up close is the execution, and finishing repays every drop the knife has drawn from you since your last kill. chained cuts buy a breath of absorption. bolts can start a fight but can never end one — cowardice is priced, and the blade structurally drags you in. the sling opens, the knife closes: the family's two weapons are partners, not rivals.
the loop
| gesture | you get |
|---|---|
| use | bleed half a heart; a needle of gold thread flies flat and fast |
| it lands | a scratch — and a seam of light opens on the wound, yours, briefly. dink. |
| use again while the seam stands | step through the cut, instantly, free — the throw already paid |
| the knife on a seam, in arm's reach | the execution: ordinary things end; big things take a bite and a stagger |
| the kill | repays every drop of blood the knife has drawn since your last one |
| crouch + use | always a fresh bolt — the escape hatch when a door stands open |
