The miasma kept breathing. The steel kept talking. The vows kept landing like quiet, unshakable verdicts. I had finally stopped pretending my swordsmanship could win this fight if it walked alone. It had been demoted from a religion to a screwdriver, and in doing so, had finally become useful again.
The Archduke turned distance into a liar with a single, casual step. I let The Grey file the two squares of stone my feet actually cared about into the category of "ordinary," so his lies about the space between us didn't land there. He tried to sell me a perfect, open lane to his flank; I asked how much it cost, decided it was too expensive, and bought the ugly, cramped one beside it. He seeded after-blades of solid miasma in the shadow of my shoulder; I moved in ways that made my shoulders boring and uninteresting targets.
