Trafalgar raised his own hand, and answered in kind.
The motes gathered over his palm, dark where Dravok's had been pale, drawn out of the air in a slow spiral, and the weight of Maledicta dropped into his grip. His sword. The blade had climbed to Legendary rank the day he broke into Ascend, and he'd felt the difference in it every day since, the edge hungrier, the mana in it deeper, the whole weapon answering his intent faster than it ever had. It drank the cold light of the place and gave nothing back, a line of pure black laid against the black ground.
He rolled his wrist once to loosen it, and let his weight drop low.
"All right." He set his eyes on Dravok. "Here we go, then."
He moved.
