A strange smile slipped to Esmir’s lips. “Tell me, Aram, how strong is your soul?” Aram frowned, thinking hard, for it was a novel and intriguing concept. “I don’t know. I’ve never measured it.” “Yes, you have,” said Markus. “You survived four years in the cellars of the Exilari—and you can still smile. That says something.” He turned to Esmir. “Do you think they can make a blade that strong?”
