In our shared victory, I hold out a hand to him, but he merely stares at me perplexed. Awkwardly, I slowly withdraw my hand. I fix my gaze on the doors that remain barred.
"I assume that it is my blood that is required."
Instinctively, I reach for my holster. Nothing. I pat my lonely thighs for my scabbards. Eyebrows furrowed, I look down and remember.
"You don't possibly have a dagger on you?"
Zoar turns his gaze on the ground, his glowing eyes hunting. He releases his staff, abandoning its side and allowing it to stand on its own. He bends down and picks up a random rock. He covers both hands with it and with a flourish, he rubs on it, sculpting it like kneaded clay into a fine column with sharp points like a double-bladed dagger.
He hands it to me.
