The world cracked at the edges.
Lan lunged forward, Devil's Lie cleaving through the air, its rusted surface humming with Sword Intent sharp enough to shear a mountain's bones. But Karahad moved with inevitability — calm, measured, every gesture drawn from a discipline honed on slaughtered beasts.
He did not dodge so much as allow the blade to miss, tilting his body at a fraction that denied violence its triumph.
Then his hand lifted, palm open, and the night itself seemed to hush.
"Third Breath," Karahad whispered.
The air shivered. Lan felt the world bend. Not his flesh — his thread. A cold, merciless pull gripped the very cord of his existence. Karahad's fingers curled slightly, and suddenly it was as though invisible hooks were dragging at his soul, tugging it toward dissolution.
