Greaves lunged.
The cleaver came down in a precise arc—not wild, not angry despite his cracked mask. Seven years with the mandoline had taught him that efficiency mattered even in violence. Especially in violence.
Marron threw herself backward, the Blade still clutched in her hand. The cleaver missed her throat by inches, close enough that she felt the wind of its passage.
She hit the ground hard, the impact driving air from her lungs. The joy was still singing through her veins—complete us, finish this, give me to my sibling—but underneath it, the Blade's terror was louder now. Clearer.
Not him. Please not him. Don't let me become that. Don't let me forget how to care.
Greaves advanced, stepping over her. Not rushing. Not emotional. Just methodical. "You're untrained. Exhausted. Fighting yourself. This will take thirty seconds. Maybe less."
He raised the cleaver again.
