"He will be taken as well," Jerenir said.
Vencian's weight sat forward on the balls of his feet. The angle was already chosen. His right shoulder rode half a finger's width lower, blade line clear, breath shallow and timed to the space between him and Jerenir. Two strides. Less, if he pushed. The floor under his boots felt solid. The distance would hold.
This was not a surge. His pulse stayed level as his fingers loosened, then set again. He was counting what would be spent. Reach, surprise, follow-through. After that, whatever came. The cost had already been taken into account and accepted.
Jerenir stood where he stood because the place required him there. Hands loose, spine upright, eyes steady. A man waiting for a step in a sequence to complete. Nothing about him invited urgency. That, more than anything, fixed the line Vencian meant to cross.
