But if it had to perish twice,

He could see the uncertainty in the younger wolf, the trepidation and care in which he picked up the blade. Art wanted him to pay for hurting Tamsyn, that much was clear. But did he have the heart to do it himself? He wasn’t mad enough. Much of the hate and frustration had slipped away between seeing Tam and this moment.

But he grabbed the knife, and they started again. The Warlord continued to hold his loose, steady stance. His center of gravity found and held as Art began his circle again. The glint of the metal blade held firmly between his teeth. The handle that held it into place in his bracers served well enough for a gripping point.

Art dove in again, aiming as through to hit the thick muscle and fluff of his chest again, before striking at his shoulder. He felt the bite of the knife dig in, felt the welcoming pain. He snarled at Art. “It’s not a sword! My meaty shoulders shouldn’t be your target. Aim for weaker points. Joints, throat, face, feet. Act like you’ve fought before, boy!” He snared at the younger wolf.

"Speech"