Reyn tumbled down a hill of hilts, each impact ringing like a funeral bell.

  When she finally stopped rolling, Reyn lay on her back among a million monuments to violence. Swords of every description pierced the earth like markers in the universe's largest graveyard. Some glowed with inner fire. Others wept tears of rust. A few sang mournful dirges in languages lost before the first star died.

  The sky above was perfect black. No stars, no moon, just an endless void that made the swords below seem to glow brighter by contrast.

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  Reyn took a minute to ensure her face was whole, and that she in fact still was alive. She then picked up Good Deeds and sheathed it on her back as she quelled the remaining Rage.

  She walked among the weapons, looking for a way out of this valley of steel. Her hand, as if drawn by its own will, found a hilt, simple and elegant. The blade, when she drew it from the earth, was strange. Good steel, single-edged, with a slight curve that spoke of craftsmanship rather than magic. But its surface held stars, as if someone had folded night into metal and convinced it to hold an edge.

  The weight was perfect. The balance sublime. It was a sword that wanted to cut, that understood cutting was its purpose and accepted this with quiet dignity.

  Reyn gave it an experimental swing. The blade parted air like silk, leaving a line of darkness that widened into another portal.

  That's useful, she thought, and jumped through before the universe could change its mind.