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Until first blood is drawn, until one fighter is disarmed—sometimes, most times, that's as far as a sword fight needs to go. But what's to be done when there is no disarming a man, not when his weapon is his name and whose loins he dropped from, and every law and legitimate flow of coin in this world is its whetstone.
His royal fucking lowness Prince Ricky lies bloodied on the ground, pinned beneath a gold-painted hoof, begging for his life, and Izzy sees to it that he does not get up again.