Whiteblade and Nightskin looked at each other. Even through the ghostly screens, the pause read loud.
The crowd swallowed as one, a sound like a tide pulling back.
Nightskin moved first. He closed the distance and slid in near Whiteblade's shoulder, too close for comfort, too close for clean sword work.
Whiteblade cursed and raised his estoc to block, blade angled across his body.
Nightskin did not give him space. He stepped into the line of the sword as if pain was just another price, then drove a punch straight into the steel.
The gauntlet hit with a soft clang. Whiteblade's eyes widened when he did not get pushed back.
Nightskin had meant it that way. He did not make Whiteblade recoil. He changed the form of his hand.
Metal fingers spread and hooked. The punch became a claw, clamping down on the blade and locking it in place like a vice.
Whiteblade gasped, mind racing for what to do next.
Shears roared through the microphone array.
