White veins of light surged across the blade like strands of rabid madness. As it reached the tip, the light pulsed with blinding intensity—and with a resounding, tremendous impact, the sword exploded, shattering into fragments of vanishing light.
The man stood frozen, his eyes wide for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile.
"Oh! Oh! My lightless soul! You really are strong. Indeed, the people of the Northern Continent are closer to the peak of civilization that was once lost."
Nyssira wasn't sure what he was saying and why he was smiling, but something about that grin gnawed at her—bitter, mocking, unwarranted. It crawled beneath her skin. She wanted nothing more than to wipe it off his rotten face with the flat of her hammer.
The burning in her chest responded to that desire. It grew. Intensely. Her breath quickened, rising with her temper.
