"Do you really know what you're doing?"
Mirk pressed one hand against the wall, while he held his blade in the other hand. He panted in pain.
His clothes were torn, and blood was seeping out of a wound between his ribs.
"Trust me, father." In front of him, Kroesch coolly shook the blood on his sword off. "I know what I'm doing more than any moment in the last twenty years."
Mirk gritted his teeth and pressed on his wound. His brows were tightly furrowed.
'I'm old after all, and am not a White Blade Guard anymore.
'I'm out of practice with the blade, my hands are stiff, and the movements of my body are slow.
'And I have no weapons or equipment that I can grab and use straight away…'
Mirk slowly moved away from the wall and sighed.
