The stranger standing before them was enormous. He towered over her, wide shoulders, broad chest, a sword sticking out of his sleeve and glinting silver-sharp as it changed in the pale moonlight. The tip of the blade, dripping blood that was almost black in the dark, flattened into a palm, long fingers unfurled. It was her imagination. It was just a hand, an arm. There was nothing silver about it. But the blood... the blood dripped onto the grass, and there was a dead woman on the ground.
