Reason first, blade second — that law kept the desert's third seat honest, and it keeps me now. A book outlasts every battle I am given; the lance comes out only when someone dear stands behind me. What gets thrown at me is swallowed and sent back doubled. The scar between my eyes remembers a blade that came from behind; the crack in the mask closed the day I took my shape back. The number on my back is history now — the sand answers to its daughters instead. Bring a reason, or bring a book.