I fight daily—

whether as a hobby or a humble chore.

Not every battle is fought upon a battleground.

The fork burst into laughter.

"Daydreaming again, my friend? One doesn't have to be that blunt."

"I am no less than a sword," the spoon replied. "Say what you will.

At least I do not prick. What's the difference between you, needles, and pins?"

The fork rattled in protest.

"A sword?" it scoffed. "You're a spoon."

"And yet I rescue. I serve. I carry warmth to trembling hands.

A sword leaves wounds. I leave people fed."

"You need sleep," said the spatula at last. "Such fantasies can be exhausting.

Sometimes I wonder whether we're even kin."

The spoon smiled.

"Perhaps.

But we are what we choose to be."

The fork sighed.

"Then choose to be useful.

The soup is getting cold."

The spoon paused…

then dipped into the bowl.

"A knight reports for duty."