"With pleasure!" Tybalt shrieked, his voice cracking as he reached into his 'Bag of Infinite Salt.'
He didn't throw a muffin this time. He threw a heavy, cast-iron skillet he'd bought from a Sector-4 merchant five minutes after we arrived at the Bazaar. It wasn't magical, it wasn't high-tech, and it certainly wasn't dignified. But as it sailed through the air, vibrating with the leftover kinetic energy from Mia's gravity pulse, it looked like a deadly, black-iron comet aimed straight for Caim's head.
Caim didn't even blink. He didn't even shift his feet. The two short-swords in his hands blurred—not with the speed of a fast swordsman, but with the stuttering, frame-skipping motion of a broken film reel.
Clang.
