"Yield," he said quietly. The word carried no command, only a quiet offer of mercy.
For a dangerous moment I thought of giving in...
Because what exactly was I fighting for?
I life I don't think I have really enjoyed before?
Or a life no one cares about...?
But Morvalis flashed through my mind in a torrent of nightmarish images: endless dark alleys where the weak were prey, nights spent starving while the powerful feasted on you, the endless cycle of dying a little more with every sunrise.
Even though I've never been there, I've heard stories, and the thing about stories is that they're either blown out of proportionor not told enough to capture how serious they really are.
Yielding meant going to meet that
I tightened my grip on my remaining blade until the hilt bit into my palm, drawing fresh blood.
"No," I whispered, the sound barely audible even to myself.
