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Mistress. Morduth's voice whispered into Malika's mind. It seemed distant, far away, echoing far back in the recesses of her consciousness. It was odd hearing him like that. Before its voice had always been so strong, so vivid.
But that was before. Before the demon. Before her wound. Before.
Mistress, came Morduth's voice again. You're injured. Malika could only nod. She feared speaking aloud lest she scream from the pain. Give me some of your blood, mistress. Just a little. I don't need much.
With her good arm, she turned Morduth edge side up, wedging it between her legs so it couldn't slip. Then she slid her forearm down the length of the blade, slowly, gingerly, carefully. The edge was still sharp, and it split her skin easily. She bit back a groan as fire tore through her arm, but she allowed her blood to flow down across Morduth's surface.
Almost instantly, Morduth's voice returned at full strength. Thank you, mistress. It sounded almost relieved. I wasn't sure that would work. Thank you.
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Inspired by (sequel to):
Judgement was still and silent. The weapon was possessed of a long and storied history; as with any …Keen Edge
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