“So they’re all spren,” he said. “Shardblades.” Syl grew solemn. “Dead spren,” Kaladin added. “Dead,” Syl agreed. “Then they live again a little when someone summons them, syncing a heartbeat to their essence.” “How can something be ‘a little’ alive?” “We’re spren,” Syl said. “We’re forces. You can’t kill us completely. Just . . . sort of.”
