Julius did not stay still for long. As if the approval he had just granted Dylan was nothing more than counterfeit currency, he suddenly changed the rules.
His hands, heavy as anvils, plunged into the earth. He pulled out two flat stones and clapped them together, the sound ringing like a death knell. Then, with a sharp flick, he hurled one at an angle—not toward Dylan, but at a split tree. The impact burst into a spray of wooden shards, flung at eye level. The second stone skimmed along the ground, invisible in the shadow of the roots.
Dylan raised his arm too late: splinters sliced his cheek, and the low projectile clipped his ankle, sending him stumbling. A misstep. His balance broke, and he crashed into the dust.
"There," Julius growled without mercy. "Real war doesn't wait for you to be ready. It strikes when your foot slips, when your breath falters, when your eye waters from a splinter. So? You going to stay facedown and wait for the end?"
