This is our endeavor. To blade! To tongue! To plow! To grind our name into the bones of tomorrow, until the horizon is lucid smooth as liquid mirror, sharp as cut glass, clear as cool water rising, irrigating in our throats the dry river bed of ambition. A witch in the gut of the tower. A wild one embraced by blood. A wizard in the court of the sword. All days divided into the days before and the days after, like the two sides of a shut window of black glass.