“I went into that quicksilver because I felt my father’s sword calling to me. And I knew I’d need it for this.” He became smoke. He was hurt and tired, but I’d never witnessed him move this fast. He came for me. One hand closed on my hip. The other reached to the other hip—for the sword there, sitting in its scabbard. He drew Solace, the blade becoming a flare of brilliant light in the ash-choked air, and then Fisher was spinning. He moved like liquid. Like lightning. Like vengeance. Ducking low, he spun, reversing the weapon so the tip of the blade pointed down. Dropping to one knee, he
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