He reopened his eyes, and his gaze had become hard as tempered steel. War did not forgive weakness. It did not reward pity. It demanded sacrifices, and he was ready to make them. Those who survived the transformation would become his true soldiers, warriors capable of standing up to dragons. Those who perished... well, they would at least have had a chance to die for something greater than themselves.
- "There is no mercy in war," he repeated to himself, his voice becoming icy and implacable again. "Only the strong survive. And I need the strong."
Rising abruptly from his metal crate, Mordred felt all eyes turn toward him. Training gradually ceased, the hunters instinctively sensing that something important was brewing. There was something in his attitude, in the tension of his shoulders, in the particular gleam of his eyes, that commanded attention.
- "Assembly," he ordered in a voice that carried throughout the room.
