“Emotion,” he says, almost idly, as he circles, forcing Verr to turn with him. “Predictable. Useful.”
Verr’s grip tightens.
I see it.
The shift.
Subtle.
Dangerous.
His shoulders tense again, his stance narrowing just slightly, like he’s preparing to push instead of redirect.
“No,” I whisper, sharper now. “Don’t you dare.”
Maltos steps in again, testing that exact edge, his strike angled just enough to provoke instead of end.
“Let’s see it,” he says. “Show me what happens when you stop thinking.”
For half a second?—
Verr almost does.
I see it in the way his weight shifts forward, the way his blade comes up not to redirect, but to meet, to overpower, to force the exchange into something brutal and immediate.
And if he does that?—
He loses.
“Verr,” I say, louder now, not shouting, but cutting through the space just enough to reach him.
His eyes flick?—
Just for a second.
Toward me.
“Don’t chase him,” I say, holding his gaze. “Make him commit.”
It’s a risk.
Breaking that focus.
But it lands.
I see it.
The tension doesn’t disappear.
It redirects.
His next movement changes.
Maltos strikes?—
Verr doesn’t meet it.
He steps off-line instead, letting the force pass through empty space, his blade catching only the edge, not to stop it, but to guide it just enough that Maltos has to adjust.
