He didn't announce the next vow. It simply arrived, a quiet decision the room made while no one was looking. "Distance is treacherous."
The floor didn't shift or crack. Its intent did. The clean, reliable squares where my feet liked to land suddenly developed tiny, malicious personalities. The obvious approach lines acquired potholes that only a committed decision could feel. The very space between us became unreliable, seeming to stretch or shrink by an inch whenever I committed my weight.
The Archduke moved the way good clocks move—once, and correctly. He slid into the middle distance and fed misdirection into the miasma with a flick of his thumb. A veil dropped from above like a set of closing curtains. An after-blade of solidified miasma drifted into place behind my right shoulder, as patient as gossip. He then launched a straight, sensible cut for the place my head would be if I did what habit and bad posture wanted.
