Dorn drove into the Lernaeans, red spattering his face, Storm’s Teeth shedding blood. Then, with a
suddenness that halted the shallow breath in Archamus’ throat, Alpharius’ spear thrust up from the press
of ranks. Its tip shimmered, silver reflection fading to mist, and Archamus thought that the sound fled from
his ears, as it drove at his lord’s chest.
It was a beautiful strike. In all his years of war Archamus had never seen the like, its simplicity like a
line drawn by a master artisan on a bare parchment. It was death and ruin, and silence without end...
And Storm’s Teeth met the spear thrust, and reality shrieked. A sheet of silver sparks exploded from the
point at which the two weapons met.

Praetorian Of Dorn