His eyes flashed with fires of burning cities; his stoic silence a counterpoint to remembered screams of his hapless enemies. He had seen so much—too much. Things he’s done, and had done to him, had left him a crazed sword.
He was weary of being ridden by the bloodlust.
Perhaps that was what brought him to be standing at the iron door of this remote mountain monastery; a haunted countenance, ripped and bloodied from his last campaign. For an instant, across his face flashed the visage of a scared orphan boy.
He squared his shoulders, breathed deeply, then knocked—once…
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