Though his real eyes was closed, Morus' mind's eye remained opened as he absentmindedly played with sand. Perhaps in meditation, or some crude method to calm his nerves, he found the swaying rope and occasional ripple from the pool relaxing. It had an even pace, like a swing he had in his garden when he was a child. The boy breathed slow and heavy, and smiled for just a moment before he felt the rumble of another door and the platform to begin to shake under an unfamiliar weight. He turned and looked to see a leather-clad figure striding towards him, pausing a few paces away, and brandishing a weapon. He was more beast than man, thick as he was tall, and covered from head to toe in padded armor. His skin was azure and with eyes so gold that Morus couldn't help but compare it to some terrible, twinkling treasure deep beneath the sea at night.

The demon spoke some stark words about combat and fires – words used by butchers from every corner of the globe. Though The Citadel brought out killers and bravi for show, it was never responsible for creating such monsters. Men were desensitized to killing long before they walked its blood soaked halls. ”It is the nature of things,” mused Morus, ”that the weak justify the strong.” But he and his village home had been the weak, and he sought a strength so awful that no crevice was safe to hide from his vengeance. And in the end, it solved nothing. The boy's soul would be stripped from him to pay a debt, even if his tormentors had deserved their end.

Morus stood up now, letting the last grains of sand stick to his hand. A wicked idea slipped into his head, and he found himself using his toes to dig in the sand beneath him, trying to guess how deep it went. Four, maybe five inches of it covered the surface of the platform, and the boy made a note of it for when the time came. He tried in vain to crack his knuckles, and when that failed went for a slow reveal of his knife that clung to the belt beneath his long tattered vest. He reached for it slowly, never breaking eye contact with his opponent even as he brushed away some soot that clung to the hilt. The boy drew it into his off hand, making a small playful spin of the long blade.

“How noble of you to wait on my account,” joked the boy, cracking a smile that lacked any humor behind it. “But I think you should recuse yourself from any concept of nobility in this butcher's work.”

Morus bent his knees a bit as if he would charge at any moment. His blade was held backwards in his left hand, and his eyes at a terrible focus to them. But as he played at the warriors art, he twisted his right hand behind his back, before flinging it forward. At once he felt the surge rush through him, the throbbing push from his arm and the light-headedness that followed. A wave of psychokinetic energy, invisible to the eye, went forth in an attempt to push his opponent to the ground.