He stared at me, his expression unreadable. Damn. He was definitely going to say no. The hilt of a sword appeared in front of my face. The Guardian held it by the blade, his fingers pinching on the smooth metal to avoid the sharpened edges. “Take it.” Wait. He was giving me his sword? “Um, okay.” The slice on my palm from the wedding fiasco was still wrapped, the scabs ripped open by the rope yesterday, so I gripped the sword’s handle past my bandage. The indentations in the handle were too large for my hand, but I did my best to fit my fingers into the worn grooves.
