The lamps burn blue and low as you approach, Morgana, lesser lights bowing before the brilliance of a brighter soul. You move differently-- truer, now that purpose has replaced uncertainty. You are armored both without and within. How many layers of steel does it take to shield a heart and mind from each other?

You never answer, but your grip on our weapon tightens. Your next step shatters the night, and and the dim alleyway goes kaleidoscopic-- viaducts and archways rising and falling, rows of streetlamps meshing in grids and grid-lines of crisscrossing metal. It’s my power, your birthright: command over the places of battle, for where the soil has tasted blood, potential sleeps closer to the surface, enough that even the slightest touch can rouse it.

These city streets are weak, bloodless, but you carry the fray within yourself-- so every place is one of battle, and every closed way is open to us.