The air shivered as it drew on its aspect, and the Saint of Swords’ own blade fell on the floor with a clang. Breathing out sharply, the old woman swung nothing at all and the Spellblade screamed. That aspect had cut Winter, elf or not he wasn’t getting through that with a shrug.

...

My fingers, coated in Night, dug through its soul and skimmed over the raw ruin the Saint had made of the first bundle.

- Book 5, Chapter 38: Pinnacle