Put it away or use it."
I chuckled at Butch's threat. Flipping the sword in the air, I caught it with ease.
"Show off," he muttered swabbing at the wood around my chair.

I didn't falter and together we matched, step for step. Each swing of the sword was blocked, each step countered. No blade ever made contact with flash. We twirled around; my concentration far too focussed to feel dizzy. All I could see was Macrucio's wicked smirk, one that reminded me far more of my past than even Nathaniel did. I wasn't fighting Macrucio now; it was my former life I had to eradicate.

While his brain lay slowly dying, Bevan felt his body come back to life.

Sorcery was a sword without a hilt. There is no sfe way to grasp it.

Sorcery was a sword without a hilt. There is no safe way to grasp it.

You pathetic humans! It escapes me how you endure any trial long enough even to breed, yet here you are. And why do your kind persist at all? Because every now and then—once a century, perhaps—ONE of you understands this: Death is what you accept only when you have spent all that you are—to the very last drop of your sweat and blood—in order to save what you love. That, son of Koronolan, is what a hero, a true warrior, would do.