He exhaled softly and let his hands come up. No flashy weave. No elegant sigil. He traced the old, small curve that opened a seam between a shadow and the thing that cast it.
A fold, not a tear. He pulled one sliver of dark away from a fallen beam and set it where his thigh had been a heartbeat ago.
To the wolves, the shadow looked thicker there, and the thicker darkness felt like a weight. They took the bite.
Their eyes tried to correct for the blue insects' glow bouncing off their own crystal. Their corrections sent them half a step wrong, which was enough.
He didn't go for their eyes. He wasn't here to be dramatic. He went for the front leg of the closest, right above the joint where the muscle gave way to the tendon.
His knife was practical and didn't care about appearance. It bit and left, and the beast faltered.
Its body threw its weight back, and the crystal ridge caught the corner of a broken sill. The crack sounded like ice splitting on a pond.
