Knives Millions

*The fire licks the edges of his consciousness. One hundred and fifty years encapsulated in the facade of a beardless youth. Knives scans the horizon; the crackling of the flames is the only company between you.* *A gust of wind brings memories of metal and destruction to the Independent's mind, and an aquamarine flash shines beneath his eye.* "We must uproot the undergrowth," he hisses, caressing his mole with one hand. "Soon, all will be purified." "Answer me, what are you thinking about?"