The man shifted his stance again. Blade reversed in a tight grip. Feet careful in the snow.
Lindarion's eyes narrowed. He watched the weight in the man's knees. The subtle pull in his shoulders.
No aura of magic building. No faint ripple of mana in the air.
Nothing but breath and muscle and the steadiness of an old blade.
'He's not a mage,' Lindarion thought.
'Just a fighter. A real one.'
The realization settled cold and heavy in his chest. He had prepared for something else. A spell flung from the dark, a poisoned dart hidden behind words.
Instead, it was steel. Flesh. Breath.
That made it simpler.
He shifted his own balance. Let a slight sag pull into his shoulders. A feint. Weakness, if the man was desperate enough to believe it.
The bait worked.
The man lunged, low and fast, blade darting for the ribs already torn. Smart. Efficient.
But not smart enough.
