Lucy hit Greaves's leg just as he lunged. Not with force—she was too small, too hurt for that. But with timing.
His foot caught on her gelatinous form. His balance shifted. The lunge became a stumble.
Marron moved without thinking. The Blade guided her hands, showing her the opening, teaching her in an instant what seven years of training might have built.
Not to kill. The Blade wasn't teaching her to kill. It was teaching her to stop.
The Blade's handle reversed in her grip. She brought the pommel up, not the edge, striking Greaves in the temple with the weighted end.
The impact was precise. Perfect. The kind of blow that stunned without killing, disabled without destroying.
Greaves went down hard, the cleaver falling from his hand. He hit the ground and lay still, unconscious.
The mandoline on his hip screamed. Red light flared so bright it was blinding, pulsing with rage and loss and desperate, infectious need.
NO. NO. SO CLOSE. MY SIBLING SO CLOSE. CAN'T STOP NOW. CAN'T—
