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Mercy, High Ones. Not justice, please, not justice. We would all be fools to pray for justice.
“I don’t duel, boy. I kill as a soldier kills, which is as a butcher kills, as quickly, efficiently, and with as least risk to myself as I can arrange. If I decide you die, you will die when I choose, where I choose, by what means I choose, and you will never see the blow coming.”
Prayer, he suspected as he hoisted himself up and turned for the door, was putting one foot in front of the other. Moving all the same.
You are a sword. You were always a sword. Like your mother and your daughter, too—steel spines run in the women of your family.
