The cloaked Mirra stumbled forward, her voice cracking. "What are you doing to her? Stop — please—"
The men turned. The one with his cock out — the one pressing against the bartender's pussy — looked at Mirra with the slow, predatory contempt of a man who had been interrupted mid-act and was annoyed about it.
"Piss off, girl. This is not your—"
I moved. The Boots of the Wind launched me — five meters in a single stride, the Knight's Bane dagger in my hand, the blade catching the moonlight. The man with the sword — the one standing guard — turned. I slashed.
The dagger caught his neck. The Knight's Bane coating — the muscle-weakening compound — seeped into the wound as the blade opened his throat. He screamed — a wet, gurgling sound — and fell.
"Kill the bastard!" the second man yelled, lunging for the dropped sword.
