Auren exhaled.
Then turned his head slightly—just enough for his voice to carry behind him.
"Wazir."
A pause.
"Keep her safe."
He didn't look at Serai. He didn't have to. She had gone still again, that dangerous kind of still that came before instinct overruled reason. Her breathing was shallow, knuckles whitening at her side.
The Wazir said nothing. Just gave a small tilt of the head and smiled, like a person whose thoughts are known only to him.
Auren stepped forward and unclasped the cloak from his shoulders.
He let it fall.
It hit the dirt with a weightless rustle.
The wind was colder without it.
He rolled one shoulder back. Shifted his footing. Opened his hands—to strike, to feel, the man that stood in front of him.
Then he faced the man who'd once torn entire rebel bands in half.
Elven Varn didn't draw a weapon.
He didn't need one.
Auren moved first. Not recklessly—precisely.
He stepped in low, slipped left, drew on the hint of emotion that radiated around Elven like scorched earth. Tried to find a fracture.
Nothing gave.
Elven turned like water with pure speed. And then he struck.
Palm to ribs.
Auren's breath snapped out of him. He staggered back, caught himself. Tried again.
Left feint. Thread pull. Right knee.
Elven didn't even flinch.
He caught Auren mid-step, twisted, and threw him sideways into the grass. Just enough not to kill him.
To remind himself of the kind of person he was.
[ELVEN – POV]
Obedience.
The first word branded into him.
Not by voice. Not by oath.
But by feeling.
The Marquis had carved it from his silence and pressed it into Elven's chest the night his sister died—when grief made him hollow, and hollow things are easy to fill.
He didn't love the House.
He didn't even respect it.
But he was tethered.
And tethered men didn't question. They answered.
Auren coughed, rolled, forced himself up again. His lip was split. The air around Elven was getting colder.
Not in temperature.
In emotional entropy.
Every time Auren tried to reach for something—regret, guilt, fear—it wasn't there. It was like Elven had bled himself dry long ago, and all that remained was polished, sharpened void.
Elven moved again.
Three steps. Fast. Then his hand lashed out— a direct strike to Auren's Ribs.
Auren pulled back.
His ribs ached.
He tried again—this time with more distance. A feint to bait a strike. He called a fragment of an Echo to the surface—a hint of fear. He sent it forward, trying to disrupt Varn's rhythm.
It didn't matter.
Elven didn't break rhythm.
Because he had none.
The man moved like he was executing orders from muscle memory, not reacting to anything at all.
Strike. Dodge. Block. Pivot.
Every time Auren moved, Elven was already two actions ahead.
Not faster.
Just… impossible to catch off-guard.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't luck.
It was discipline honed to a weapon's edge.
Auren ducked under a backhand strike—but caught a knee in the chest before he could counter.
He hit the ground hard.
Dust exploded around him.
Blood touched the back of his tongue.
He didn't get up immediately.
Elven Varn stepped forward.
Not fast.
Just inevitably.