"You won't go down," she said.
It sounded like an order. Maybe it was.
He let the corner of his mouth notch up. Good. Anchor me, then.
The sword scythed again. Closer. The whistle above the steel was a naked thing; it had no business being beautiful.
Rodion didn't try to catch it this time. He stepped half a pace, plates angling to deflect debris lines that his calculus had already drawn in ghost chalk across the air.
Thalatha's bow crept higher of its own accord. The string hummed against her fingertips, the familiar high note that always felt better than words. Her bad shoulder snarled dull pain that brought water to her eyes and a curse to her tongue, but the line of shot felt true, and true shots forgave almost anything.
Mikhailis sank his weight into the balls of his feet. The nearest hex pulsed, answering some silent now.
He didn't look at her, but he said, "If I say duck, please duck. I like your head."
"Why would I—"
