"Everybody's a critic," Conor huffed, but there was no heat behind it. He simply increased the pressure, as Byron had suggested. Blood started to flow more freely then, and he wiped it out of the way so he could see his work. Both hands were nearly covered now, and the hilt felt sticky in his hand. He wondered idly if he could carve a snowflake somewhere.
Conor mirrored his expression. "Neither did I, to tell you the truth. But there's something to be said for letting your darkness out now and again, isn't that what you always said? Or something like that." He shrugged. "And it's something new, being on the other side of the knife."