Zaber stared down at the leader lying on the ground for a long time.
He was profoundly satisfied with his victory. For the first time, he had proven—to himself and for himself alone—that he was not weak.
The leader, meanwhile, drew his final breaths.
Blood poured heavily from the wound in his side; with every inhale his chest rose unevenly, his lungs barely functioning. His breathing came in whistling gasps, blood gurgling in his throat.
In a whisper he said:
"You won… now tell me… why you attacked us…"
Zaber drove his sword through the leader's hand. Preventing any hidden strike, he pressed the blade down through bone, pinning the hand immobile. Then he knelt beside the man's head. In his eyes there was neither mercy nor hatred—only detached coldness.
"I already told you," he said in a calm tone. "There is no reason."
After a brief pause he added:
