He unsheathed his sword—a heavy, chipped broadsword taken from a dead Frankish knight. No elegant Persian steel. This was a brute’s weapon. He’d become a brute. Seven years of running does that to a man.
Tonight, his refuge was a crumbling Crusader fortress overlooking the Aegean. Rain lashed the stones like a thousand whips. He sat with his back to a dead fire, the Dagger of Time strapped to his thigh. It pulsed faintly—a blue vein in a dying heart. Prince of Persia - Warrior Within -USA Europe- ...
On the fortress ramparts, with the Aegean churning below, the Dahaka finally cornered him. He unsheathed his sword—a heavy, chipped broadsword taken
"The Mask of the Wraith lies in the Throne of the Dead. Wear it, and the Watcher cannot see you. But you must die first." He’d become a brute
The Dahaka spoke. Not in words. In sensations .
It worked.
Two days left. Kaileena’s words haunted him more than the Dahaka’s roar. If you reach the past and stop the Sands from being created, you will never be born. But if you don’t… the Dahaka will erase every moment you ever lived.
