“Bold,” he says as I come within range, his voice carrying easily despite the clash around us.
“Necessary,” I reply, adjusting my stance.
His eyes flick briefly past me, tracking the shifting battle, the reinforcements pressing in, the line tightening.
“You’ve turned the field,” he says.
“Not yet,” I answer.
His mouth curves slightly.
Then he moves.
The first strike comes in low and fast, angled to break stance instead of end the fight outright. I shift with it, letting the force pass instead of meeting it, redirecting just enough to keep my footing as I step inside his reach.
He follows immediately, adjusting, tightening the engagement, his movements efficient.
Good.
I don’t give him space to settle.
The next exchange closes tighter, blades catching, sliding, testing without committing, each movement probing for an opening the other won’t give freely.
“This is what you chose,” he says, his voice sharper now, less removed, more present in the fight.
“Yes.”
“For her.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
I step forward instead, breaking the rhythm he’s trying to establish, forcing him to adjust to me instead of the other way around. His next strike shifts higher, faster, but it comes a fraction too late.
That’s enough.
I close the distance fully, driving inside the arc of his movement where his reach works against him, my blade turning in a tight, controlled motion that leaves no room for correction.
It lands clean.
The resistance is brief.
Then gone.
He stills, the tension leaving him in a single, decisive release, his gaze locking onto mine for half a second before it fades.
I pull the blade free and step back, already turning before he hits the ground.
Behind me, the shift is immediate.
Not gradual.
Not subtle.
The fracture becomes collapse.
Krago’s forces break.
