After the tremendous crash from the other side of the chamber, something shifted almost imperceptibly. The air felt heavier, more oppressive, as though time itself were tightening around Ophelia, Naty, and Sir James. The Deviant had stopped wearing that distracted smile. His expression hardened, and his eyes now followed every movement with a new, almost clinical focus. He was learning. Breaking down their footwork, their rhythm, their reflexes. The realization settled like a knot in Ophelia's stomach. Until now, the fight had depended on their coordination and their ability to keep surprising him. That advantage was disappearing.
Sir James took one step forward, then another, steadily closing the distance. Ophelia pivoted with her daggers raised, body lowered and ready to spring. Naty remained slightly behind her, the blood-coated whip drawing slow, almost hypnotic circles through the air. The exchanges resumed, faster and sharper than before. Ophelia struck at the wounds they had already opened, constantly changing angles, but Sir James blocked more effectively now. He anticipated more. His skin remained unnaturally resistant, but he was no longer content to simply absorb their attacks. He answered them, and every counter was becoming more precise.
The first clean blow caught Ophelia in the shoulder. She grunted through clenched teeth and gave half a step without breaking her stance. Another strike landed lower, against her ribs. Pain surged violently through her side, tearing a breath from her before she managed to suppress it. She was still standing, but every contact brought her closer to her limit. She could not afford to slow down. Somewhere behind her, in that immense chamber, Kenzo and Lucian were fighting for their lives, and every second mattered.
Naty felt the same urgency. It hammered at the back of her mind, growing stronger with every exchange. Her whip began moving faster, more aggressively. She was trying to force an opening, provoke one decisive mistake, end the fight before it dragged on any longer. But in accelerating, her timing changed slightly. An almost invisible difference.
Sir James noticed immediately.
The whip cracked toward his flank, but instead of snapping back at once as it usually did, the cord remained extended for a fraction of a second too long.
That was enough.
Sir James reached out and caught it in his bare hand.
The force of his grip traveled through the whip and up Naty's arm. Her eyes widened. She immediately tried to release the tension and pull free, but the Deviant's grip was monstrous. He yanked hard, dragging her toward him.
Ophelia reacted instantly.
She threw herself between them, daggers cutting through the air in a desperate attempt to force him to let go.
Sir James did not even bother blocking.
He kicked.
The strike came without any visible wind-up, brutally fast, and hit Ophelia squarely. She was thrown sideways, rolling across the webbed floor as the friction burned against her skin and the air escaped her lungs in a muffled groan.
The kick had not been meant to kill her.
Only to remove her.
Only for long enough.
Naty was pulled in.
Sir James dragged her against him, his smile returning wider and more deranged than ever. Saliva once again spilled down his chin, his eyes shining with savage excitement.
— « I told you… I'd start with you. »
Naty fought against his pull, planting her feet into the webbing and twisting her body in an attempt to break free, but the force dragging her forward was overwhelming. She did not even have time to raise a proper defense.
Sir James drove his fist into her stomach.
The impact was deep and brutal, almost strangely quiet, but the effect was immediate. The air burst from Naty's lungs in a broken gasp. Her eyes went blank, and her body was launched backward like a discarded doll.
She flew across the chamber and crashed into a wall of webbing with a muffled impact. The silk warped around her, trembled, then became still, briefly holding her body in place. Naty slowly slid down the wall, leaving a dark streak behind her before collapsing onto the floor.
For an instant, the world stopped.
Still on one knee, Ophelia raised her head just in time to see Naty fall. Her chest tightened painfully. She did not know if Naty was dead or merely unconscious.
The uncertainty was worse than knowing.
Heat surged through her chest, a violent mixture of rage, fear, and guilt. She forced herself upright, staggering slightly, her daggers trembling between her fingers.
Sir James slowly turned toward her, savoring the moment. He rolled his neck, cracked his joints, then smiled again.
Wide.
Mad.
— « There… » he breathed. « Now we're alone. »
Ophelia raised her guard. Her breathing was short, her entire body aching, but her eyes burned with fierce determination.
There was no room left for mistakes.
No partner.
No safety net.
Just her, facing a Transfigured Deviant who had already proven he could break them one after another.
Sir James studied her with growing curiosity.
Something around Ophelia had changed.
The air surrounding her seemed to tremble faintly, as though the temperature were slowly rising, forming an invisible aura that was almost tangible. Before his eyes, the wounds still marking her skin began to close. Slowly, silently, they healed on their own.
For the first time, something other than amusement entered Sir James's expression.
Unease.
He did not understand what he was seeing, and that uncertainty refused to leave him.
Ophelia tightened her grip on her daggers and planted her feet firmly into the silk.
One certainty settled inside her.
She would not retreat.
Not now.
Not here.
Not while Naty was still breathing.
At the far end of the chamber, as the fight prepared to begin again, Sir James's shadow stretched across the walls of webbing, distorted and overwhelming. Their rush to finish the battle had already cost them dearly.
There was no longer any question of ending this quickly so they could help the boys. No broader strategy. No distant coordination.
From this moment on, Ophelia had only one priority.
Survive.
Every second that followed would be a raw, desperate struggle—not to win, but simply to stay alive.