The smile on Logan’s lips lingered as his fingers brushed the cloud-patterns etched into his scabbard. His voice, clear and flowing like the lake beside them, cut softly through the still air.
“Since you’ve awakened from your slumber,” he said, “why turn your wrath on mortals?”
His gaze drifted over the white light sheathing the man above him. In Logan’s eyes the glint of stars seemed to move, as if he were peering straight through time’s dust to the truth behind the other man’s face.
Sunlight pooled on the long sword resting on the stone table. The turquoise set into the scabbard’s edge glimmered faintly in the shifting light, and a trace of fresh plant-fragrance curled from it—a warm counterpoint to the ancient chill radiating from the man floating above.
The white-robed figure in the air hesitated. Surprise flickered again in his eyes.
He had been awake only days. Other than the sudden clash of sword-energy a moment ago, no one had approached him; yet with a single question this man in white had pierced his “sleep.” That insight forced him to reassess.
“You… know me?” His voice, still cold, carried a thread of uncertainty. The halo of light around him tightened, hardening from flowing mist into white jade edged with glints of ice. Even the surrounding air picked up a brittle chill.
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