He knelt and took her face lightly in her hand.  "I had years of training, training so brutal that if you didn't learn, you died."  He removed his tunic, his form, while well muscled was a patchwork of scars.  Many so deep that they looked as if they'd open back up at the merest touch.  "I didn't die.  But I'd hardly call what I've done since then living."  His voice was soft.  "Your magic isn't something you should depend on.  The best way to avoid a fight is to not fight.  I learned long ago that I was useless.  The world is infinitely big.  I've been trained in combat...but what do I really change?  I can hurt people, yes, but violence begets violence and the cycle never ends.  There is always someone better, someone quicker, stronger, with more training.  There is no shame in defeat if you can stand and live.  The only shame is when you have to end a human life."  His eyes were sad.  "My sister....she....she didn't survive.  They put her up against me.  We had to wear masks to conceal our identities.  I grew up with her...knew the way she moved.  I knew it was her," he paused.  "And at the moment when it mattered the most...I still had to kill her."