Zolomon narrowed his eyes at him, his gaze sharp enough to slice through silence, as though he could read the very pages of Simma's mind.
""Ashenvolt," he said, his voice low and steady, "is a power that grants its wielder raw knowledge and a natural adaptability to any weapon they touch; how to hold it, how to strike with it, and how to master it."
Simma might have chuckled at the dramatic delivery, but sorrow weighed down on him like a stone on a drowning man. His face remained stiff, rigid, as humorless as a pig in the rain.
Still, a flicker of pride tried to surface. Maybe, just maybe, he had inherited something from his mother after all.
Any weapon that found its way into his hands would bend to him faster than it would to anyone else, the knowledge embedding itself in him with uncanny speed.
