He pivots.
Drives in.
Not for the blade?—
For the body.
The impact lands solid, a sharp, brutal strike to Verr’s ribs that folds him just enough to break his posture, the air leaving him in a rough exhale that he tries to mask and doesn’t quite manage.
A murmur ripples through the chamber.
I don’t look at them.
I don’t care what they see.
“Breathe,” I mutter, my voice low, focused, like he can hear me even though he can’t. “Don’t lock up now.”
Maltos steps back just enough to reset the distance, not out of necessity, but control, letting Verr come back up on his terms instead of forcing him down further.
“Still reacting,” Maltos says.
Verr straightens slowly, one hand tightening on his weapon, his shoulders rolling once like he’s resetting the structure from the inside out.
“I’m learning,” Verr replies, his voice steadier than his body was a second ago.
“Too slowly.”
Maltos moves again.
Faster this time.
Not testing anymore.
Pressing.
The next sequence comes in tight, precise arcs, each strike feeding into the next, forcing Verr to keep up or fall behind completely. Steel meets steel again and again, the rhythm accelerating, the sound turning harsher, more violent, less measured.
Verr holds.
Barely.
He catches one, redirects another, but the third?—
The third breaks through.
The blade doesn’t land clean, but it scrapes along his side, tearing fabric, drawing blood in a sharp, bright line that darkens almost immediately.
I inhale sharply before I can stop myself.
“Damn it,” I breathe.
Maltos sees that too.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t look at me, but the shift in him says enough.
He knows exactly where the pressure is.
