The sword's hilt is warm to the touch, as warm as fire, and Peta feels as if her hand should be burning as she touches it, nearly expects the smell of smoke as she closes her fingers around it, but there's nothing. She draws the sword (it whispers its name into her mind, Rhindon, and she whispers back, I've been waiting, though she doens't know why) and lets the sunlight sparkle off the blade in the same way it does the snow around her.

"Battles are ugly affairs, are they?" she says, and smiles the way she's never smiled before, sharp and fierce and hungry.