“Is that what you wanted?” I say, sitting back so he can examine the paper. Oran leans on the desk, bending over the page so he can read what I wrote. His eyes scan the page, angry color suffusing his face. “No!” he cries. “That’s not—” I grab the letter opener and stab it down onto the back of his hand. The tiny medieval sword goes all the way through his hand, pinning it to the desk.
