“‘I am the servant of the sword,’ he said. ‘I obey the will of the—great god, woman, put on some clothes!’”

Sarkis’s first words to Halla subvert the high-fantasy trope of a magical being’s dramatic appearance. The jarring shift from a formal, mystical declaration to a flustered, mundane demand for propriety introduces the novel’s comedic tone, which remains constant from chapter to chapter.

“Good. Roderick and I will go out that way and make sure no one suspicious is lurking around. Oh, this is Roderick, my aunt’s guardsman.”

In this moment of deception at the town lich-gate, Halla demonstrates her quick thinking under pressure. By misdirecting the young man on vigil with a clever lie, she employs intellect to ensure their escape, contrasting with Sarkis’s reflexive use of force in any scenario. As she focuses on Navigating the Prejudices of a Patriarchal System, Halla projects the false persona of a concerned, slightly foolish woman to manipulate the situation to her advantage.

“I’m an idiot. She’s asking questions to distract herself from how uncomfortable she is.”

In this moment, Sarkis’s realization marks a significant turning point in his perception of Halla. He no longer sees her constant questioning as an irritating character flaw when he reinterprets her behavior as if she were one of his recruits from long ago, seeking to endure all discomfort without complaint before their commander. This shift in perspective deepens Sarkis’s bond with Halla, elevating their dynamic to a partnership based on empathy.

“‘Well, if we weren’t in a hurry, then I could feed us just fine,’ said Halla with some asperity. ‘It’s autumn. You’ve got to work to starve in the middle of autumn.’”

With this declaration, Halla asserts her own capability, challenging Sarkis’s assumption that he is her sole provider and protector. Her detailed knowledge of foraging reveals that she possesses many practical survival skills, and as Sarkis’s respect for her rises, her words reinforce the idea of Competence as a Basis for Romance. In this moment, Sarkis realizes that she is a competent partner, not as a “lady” to be pampered and patronized.

“There was something terribly kind and trusting about Halla. Wherever these people had come from, their impersonal malice had clearly astonished her. She just wasn’t used to evil or desperate people turning up out of nowhere.”

This passage of third-person limited narration focuses on Sarkis’s analysis of Halla’s core characteristics. The oxymoronic phrase “terribly kind” pinpoints the idea that Halla’s greatest strength is at once her deepest liability, for she struggles to understand the new type of danger she faces: the “impersonal malice” of those who wish to harm her for no good reason at all.

“Across his sternum, written and overwritten like a scribbled line, was a slick silver scar as wide as Halla’s hand and at least a foot long. […] ‘Yes. My deaths. Most of them, at any rate.’”

This quote uses visual imagery to illustrate Sarkis’s long history of suffering. By describing his scar with the simile “like a scribbled line,” the author suggests that his chaotic, violent past has been physically written onto his body. Revealing these scars is an act of vulnerability that deepens his character, creating a moment of intimacy and empathy between him and Halla.

“‘Hardly anybody kills stupid women,’ said Halla. ‘They kick us out of the way, they smack us occasionally, but nobody thinks we’re a threat.’”

Here, Halla explicitly articulates her primary survival strategy, a key component of navigating the prejudices of a patriarchal system. In this light, her previous rambling can be reinterpreted as a calculated performance designed to de-escalate threats. Her offhand tone also conveys her sense of resignation at having to deal with such systemic injustices on a regular basis.

“‘I will not go back to the Weeping Lands,’ he said. ‘As long as I do not, then in my heart, they are all still there, still alive, unchanged. If I return, I will see what hundreds of years have wrought, and my heart will know that they are dead.’”

This confession reveals the emotional cost of Sarkis’s immortality, portraying his magical imprisonment as a paradoxical means of preserving his past. His choice to remain an exile highlights the sword’s symbolic duality as both a prison and a shield against unbearable truths. With this vulnerable admission, Sarkis entrusts Halla with his deepest sorrow.

“‘I can’t sell Sarkis! He’s not mine!’ Halla frowned. ‘I mean, he’s sort of mine, I suppose, but I can’t sell him! He’s a person!’”

Halla’s emphatic refusal to sell the sword redefines her relationship with Sarkis, affirming that the two have built an equal partnership despite his magical imprisonment. By instinctively affirming his personhood and rejecting the idea of selling him as an artifact, she honors the idea of Finding Freedom in a Chosen Partnership. This declaration demonstrates her unwavering morality and establishes the foundation of mutual respect upon which their future bond will be built.

“It had taken Halla and her endless questions and inability to take anything at face value to see him as a man again, and then to search out how such a man, isolated in time, might find a marker.”

Following their first kiss, Sarkis’s internal monologue reveals a significant shift in his self-perception, and he now sees Halla’s habit of asking questions as a form of genuine care. The phrase “isolated in time” emphasizes his existential loneliness, and Halla’s practical kindness will become the catalyst for his emotional reawakening.

“‘Yes, but I’m told it’s not the size of the sword that matters,’ said Halla. She frowned. ‘Although my husband used to say that, and do you know, he never told me what it meant?’”

During a tense confrontation with the militant priests, Halla employs a strategic persona of naïve foolishness to disarm her opponents. The dialogue also functions as a heavy-handed double entendre, for Halla blithely feigns ignorance of a sexual euphemism to confuse and fluster her opponents. This tactic exemplifies the finer points of navigating the prejudices of a patriarchal system, as Halla weaponizes behavior that many men perceive as feminine weakness, relying upon her antagonists’ misperceptions to ensure her own survival.

“I’ve laid out the bodies of my sisters, my mother, my husband, one of the field hands, my great-uncle, and Old Nan the cook […] Dead bodies don’t worry me. It’s the live ones that get you.”

In the aftermath of the priests’ deaths, Halla’s calm response reveals her essential pragmatism. As she catalogs her past bereavements, revealing a life marked by loss, her explanation silences Sarkis’s criticism and gains his respect on a new level. This moment subverts traditional expectations of feminine sensitivity and highlights the idea of competence as a basis for romance, for Halla’s steadfast resilience allows her to function well in a crisis.

“‘No,’ said Sarkis. He felt strangely light, as if he had just shed a heavy load of armor. ‘No, it’s all right. I will see you safely home. And then perhaps, afterward, we can find our way back here. A few weeks is not so long, compared to five hundred years.’”

When offered a chance to be free of the sword, Sarkis chooses to remain with Halla, marking a pivotal moment in their relationship. The simile comparing his decision to shedding armor signifies that he feels released from the emotional burdens of his past, even as he fully commits to his partnership with Halla. His choice demonstrates that true liberation lies in willingly choosing his loyalties.

“What she felt for Sarkis was something wildly different, as if a branch had been grafted on a familiar tree and had grown a bizarre and unexpected fruit.”

While facing a life-threatening situation, Halla has an epiphany about the nature of her feelings for Sarkis. The extended metaphor of a grafted tree branch producing “bizarre and unexpected fruit” articulates the oddness of this new, unfamiliar romantic love. This vivid imagery contrasts the ordinary with the extraordinary, defining her relationship with Sarkis as a transformative force in her life.

“‘Yes,’ said Halla, ‘but you’re a highwayman. You want people to believe you have superior numbers so that they give you their money without a fight. Making someone invisible would just mean that they were more likely to fight you, wouldn’t it? And you can’t very well have an invisible person stop travelers in the middle of the road. They’d just get run down.’”

In this scene, Halla turns the tables by interrogating her captors and employing logic as a disarming form of self-defense. By deconstructing the bandit leader’s flawed premise with unflinching practicality, Halla subverts his power, wisely navigating the prejudices of a patriarchal system with her sharp, cutting wit.

“She trusts you.

She trusts you to keep her safe.

Pride warred with sudden dread. He would fail. He had already failed. Everyone who trusted him to keep them safe had already died, most in the space of one single bloody day.”

This passage uses fragmented internal monologue to illustrate Sarkis’s emotional anguish after he rescues Halla. The repetition of the declaration “She trusts you” emphasizes the extent of her faith in him, but the full weight of Sarkis’s centuries of trauma can be seen in his dread of failing her, as he believes he failed his previous wielders. This internal turmoil foreshadows the revelation of his secret past and highlights his fear of unworthiness.

“But she is, I think, like many children born in poverty. Intelligent…curious…but never given beyond the most basic education. […] As it is, she has learned to be quiet and agreeable and to appear quite stupid when it is convenient. But the curiosity still comes through.”

Zale’s analysis identifies Halla’s feigned ignorance as a deliberate survival mechanism, making it clear that her seemingly simple questions are a sign of deep intelligence that has been repressed by a lifetime of social and economic constraints. The analysis directly supports the theme of navigating the prejudices of a patriarchal system, for Halla has adapted her intellectual gifts to navigate a world that undervalues them.

“‘Halla. I need you to do something for me.’

‘Yes?’

‘For the next ten minutes, the only words I want you to say are “Yes,” “No,” “Harder,” “More,” and “There.” And if you don’t like what I’m doing, “Stop.” Can you please do that for me?’

‘Sure. I mean, yes.’”

This erratic exchange occurs during Halla and Sarkis’s first intimate moment, blending humor with vulnerability to illustrate their unique dynamic. Sarkis’s request is a gentle parody of Halla’s incessant questioning, but it also establishes clear boundaries and prioritizes her consent and pleasure. The conversation thus subverts typical romance tropes, grounding the characters’ developing relationship in the same pragmatic communication that has defined their journey.

“Here is…the prison and…judgment? Punishment? of Sarkis of the Weeping Lands. Faithless in life, he will be faithful in death, until steel crumbles and all sins fade away.”

Nolan’s halting translation of the sword’s inscription fuels the climactic moment in which Sarkis reveals the source of his guilt. The text functions as a curse, reframing his service as a punishment for a past betrayal. This revelation shatters Halla’s perception of him as an undiluted hero, complicating their relationship and giving rise to the inevitable “third-act breakup” that marks the classic romance plotline.

“‘Ugh!’ said Halla, and then, completely out of other ideas, she grabbed the knife off the butcher block and stabbed Alver with it.”

In this moment, Halla’s frustration forces her into an act of practical, desperate violence against her tormentor, but the fact that she uses a common household tool underscores the idea that she is adept at seizing existing resources and repurposing them to fit the needs of the moment. However, the sheer absurdity of Alver’s threats against her drains her of any clever response, and she resorts to attacking him because he leaves her no other options.

“‘You are sure that everyone means well,’ said Zale, clearly amused. ‘Which is why I think you are perhaps well matched with Sarkis after all. He’s sure that everyone is determined to kill everyone else in their sleep. Between the two of you, you average out to a nicely functional outlook.’”

Zale’s observation functions as authorial commentary on the novel’s central relationship. The use of antithesis—contrasting Halla’s optimism with Sarkis’s cynicism—highlights how their opposing worldviews create a balanced and practical whole. This dialogue explicitly articulates the theme of competence as a basis for romance, suggesting that a successful bond requires both parties to create a “nicely functional outlook.”

“‘I thought you were used to betraying people,’ Halla said.”

This line of dialogue is layered with irony as Halla weaponizes Sarkis’s greatest shame in order to enable his salvation. By invoking his past as a traitor, she is asking him to “betray” the sword’s magical compulsion so that he can resist his current, malevolent wielder. This moment reframes his curse, suggesting that the very quality for which he is being punished might be the key to his and Halla’s freedom.

“Sarkis flipped his sword around, set the point under his sternum, and threw himself at the ground.”

This action is the ultimate subversion of Sarkis’s magical imprisonment. Forced to defend his wielder from all threats, Sarkis identifies himself—and the harm he would be compelled to inflict on Halla—as the greatest threat of all. By killing himself, he paradoxically fulfills his duty while defying his master’s command, transforming the sword into an instrument of his own agency and sacrifice.