( He remembers this: the length of the barrel, the biting tip of the weapon. Sound like scratching, like worlds ending. Wrath on the other end of it — the 'pistol' — completing their test to see how the 'bullets' performed.

This is no weapon of kindness, of compromise, of elegance. It slaughters neatly, without forewarning, without the courtesy of allowing an opponent the chance to practise skill and earn their next breath.

It cuts. It culls. It claims and crushes. He walks and does not trip the girl as she arms, though fleetingly considers it — only to finally tap the very end of her weapon with the sheathed hilt of his sword in passing. )

That is unnecessary. ( Worse, by the trickling thickness of his contempt — it is unwanted. )