Malika danced. Creatures emerged from the darkness all around her, and she whirled among them. Her steps were light, quick. She never remained still, never allowed the beasts to reach her. She was driven by need, fueled by the sword’s own desire.
Blood flew through the air, except that which touched the blade. That it drank up greedily. With every kill more rust flaked off the weapon, exposing good steel in the blue flamelight. The fire itself became taller, more vibrant, the pungent smell of seared flesh filling the air.
She danced with death, even becoming death. The sword fed, but it granted her no special abilities. It simply reveled in her art. No, her talent was her own, taught to her by her father. He had once told her, “Malika, you fight like a ballerina, with a grace and beauty that is both terrible and exquisite to behold.”
She stumbled with the memory, and claws passed a hair’s breadth from her face. That snapped her attention back into focus, and she sent another beast to the halls of Ashmar.
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