Deliberately.
Not losing it.
Using it.
The chamber feels different now.
The air shifts.
The watchers feel it.
I feel it.
“Now,” I murmur, my voice barely there, my eyes locked on every movement, every shift in weight, every fraction of imbalance. “Make him overreach.”
Maltos drives forward again, committing more force this time, more certainty, expecting the same resistance.
Verr doesn’t give it to him.
He pivots.
Sharp.
Clean.
And for the first time?—
Maltos is a fraction too far forward.
It’s small.
Barely visible.
But I see it.
“Take it,” I breathe.
Verr does.
His blade turns tight, controlled, striking not where Maltos is strong?—
But where he isn’t ready.
The impact lands.
Not clean.
Not decisive.
But real.
And Maltos?—
Steps back.
The chamber inhales.
I don’t smile.
