"'T'will be eleven years, come summer's end," Hector answers, not missing a beat. He retrieves the second sword for himself, ghosting his fingers over the intricate scrollwork tooled across the scabbard. As far as time goes, he knows that just over a decade isn't so long,--he recalls some enemy officers with twice that under their belt--but he feels his experiences in those years more than make up for it.

He looks up. "And yourself? How long have you fought with knives?"