When he opened his eyes again, the commander had returned. A group of men followed him, each bearing weapons dulled by years of use. They laid them before Lindarion, kneeling without being told.
"My lord," the commander said, "we ask you to show us. How to wield them against monsters. How to strike as hunters, not prey."
The blades lay crooked and chipped, their edges jagged. Pathetic compared to the weapon humming at his side. But eyes burned behind them, desperate for knowledge.
Lindarion rose, every motion measured, pain hidden beneath steel. He drew one of the rusted swords, testing its weight. Unbalanced, brittle. Yet it would kill, if driven true.
He turned, holding it with steady hands. "Then watch."
He moved, slow at first, cutting the air with sharp arcs. He showed them where to strike, under the arm, at the neck, behind the knee.
