Damon glanced at Xander, who stood before him like a colossus, unmoving and unchanging, his expression cold beneath his helm.
There was a sensation of danger that covered Damon's body like a shroud, but he did not move either. Deep within his shadow, he heard the faint stir of the great dragon Aethergon, whom he had imprisoned there years ago.
Finally, he held his dagger in his hand. The broken sword gleamed with darkness, and surrounding its blade was a thick fog of darkness, shadows, and souls. This sword was sharp enough to damage the soul. It was a deadly weapon bound to Damon's own soul, an extension of who he was.
Xander kept his eyes on Damon as his armor slowly shifted into its Sovereign Mantle form. Thick, heavy plates of metal surrounded his body, while his helm completely covered his face and his aura grew stronger.
Damon knew words were pointless here, so he did the same for his armor.
