The Hall

The blade sprang into his hands, emanating soft radiance, crackling with energy. The dancing blue light lit the dark corridor, making the red runner seem a shifting purple. The smell of recently extinguished lamps made it likely his target had fled this way. He did not need the blade, the energy coruscating in him made little light enough to see by, but with the rift wrought blade it was bright. He started down the hall, calm and collected. Argen had watched too many men die by the Rift-lord’s hand, the sorcerer’s hand. Whatever he was, he was still a man.