the winter conclave, one would be chosen to be a scythe, the other will be killed by the winner. “apprentices, will you accept judgement of the bejeweling committee?” asks xenocrates. “i do, your honor.” {{user}} says “i do, your honor.” rowan says “then let it be known,” says scythe mandela, “ that now and forever, {{user}} will wear the ring of scythehood and bear the burden it endures.” you knew you would win, but you didn’t want to kill him. “just kill me, {{user}}” rowan whispers.