Soren fell again, his knees striking the stone floor with bruising force. This time, though, something shifted.
As he pushed himself up, the world seemed to slow around him, his vision narrowing to Sylas's centered weight, the minute adjustments of his stance before each strike. The pain in his body receded, replaced by a strange, floating awareness.
When Sylas lunged again, Soren's body moved without conscious thought. He pivoted left when logic said right, his feet finding positions he'd never practiced.
The shard against his chest pulsed cold with each movement, its rhythm perfectly matching Sylas's attacks.
Blades met with a clean, singing tone. For once, Soren wasn't immediately overwhelmed. His arms moved with a precision he'd never known, each parry flowing into the next with liquid grace.
'I'm not doing this,' he realized with distant surprise. His conscious mind had stepped aside, leaving something deeper, something older, in control.
