At that, everything happened at once. From the left cliff, a glint, archers, maybe four, popping up like weeds. On the bridge, two more figures materialized, shields up, ready for a charge. The Lady didn't scream or flinch; she just pivoted, weight on the balls of her feet, hands inside the coat.
Mira exploded first, knife out and aimed at the soft crease below the tall one's armor plate. Soren felt the fragment in his wrist turn to ice, and he rolled toward the shields, using the momentum to torque his blade up and catch the swing at the rim.
He tried to light the Aura, but the pressure in the gap was all noise, yelling, boots slamming, the crack of arrows on the stone. The line was gone, lost in the riot. He parried, grabbed the shield's edge, and yanked the man forward, putting him between himself and the archers. The second shield-bearer clipped Soren's knee; he felt the pop, the instant numbness, but no time for regret.
