I let him think I am.
Let him build the rhythm he expects.
Then break it.
The chamber fades.
The noise.
The watchers.
All of it drops away until there’s only movement, timing, the space between decisions.
And for the first time?—
He’s adjusting to me.
37
LYRIA
The first thing I notice is how clean it is.
Not the fight—that’s anything but—but the way Maltos moves inside it, like nothing he does is wasted, like every shift of weight and turn of his wrist has already been decided before Verr even commits to the motion. It’s not speed that makes him dangerous. It’s certainty. The kind that doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question, doesn’t leave space for doubt to creep in and slow anything down.
And Verr?—
Verr is still thinking.
I can see it in the way his shoulders carry just a fraction too much tension, the way his feet adjust half a beat after they should instead of before. He’s better than he was. Sharper.
But he’s still reacting.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath, barely moving my lips as I track them across the floor, my fingers curling slightly at my sides like I can grab the rhythm and force it into place from here. “Don’t follow him.”
Steel rings out again, sharp and bright, the sound cutting through the chamber as Verr catches a strike that comes in fasterthan the last, the force of it driving him back a step he doesn’t quite choose.
There.
That’s the problem.
Maltos presses immediately, not giving him space to reset, the next movement already unfolding before the first one finishes. It’s not a flurry. It’s pressure. Constant, deliberate, like he’s tightening something invisible around Verr’s movement and waiting for it to snap.
“You’re late,” Maltos says, his voice calm, almost conversational, even as his blade turns and drives forward again. “Every adjustment comes after the mistake.”
Verr doesn’t answer.
Good.
He doesn’t have the breath for it anyway.
He shifts left this time, earlier than before, catching the edge of the strike instead of taking it fully, but it’s still defensive, still responding instead of shaping.
My jaw tightens.
“No,” I whisper. “Stop letting him set it.”
Another clash—louder this time, the vibration of it running through the stone beneath my feet. Verr’s footing slips half an inch as he absorbs the force, and Maltos sees it. Of course he does.
