The parasite stared at the sword.
The blade quivered in the stone. The silver steel sang a low, hungry note that cut through the mountain wind. The vertical pupils inside Jacob's eyes dilated, the black slits expanding as the thing behind them calculated the weight of its choices.
It reached down.
The hand moved with mechanical precision. The fingers closed around the grip. The moment the skin touched the steel, the sword flared — bright, silver, angry. The blade had been waiting for a hero, and it had found something that was not a hero but would serve.
"Swing it," Raven said.
The parasite lifted the blade. The puppet's arm raised the Sword of the Hero in a high arc. The silver cut the air with a whistle. The swing was awkward, too fast, too mechanical — the movement of a thing that had never held a human weapon.
"Again," Raven commanded.
