The Crimson Knight exploded out of the swirling steam as though a siege-ram had grown legs and fury. Every plate of his armor screeched on its rivets, metal teeth grinding until sparks leapt into the haze. Lyan planted his boots, shifting just enough that the glaive's butt kissed the marble for grounding. His eyes tracked micro-movements: the shoulder that lifted half a breath after the knee, the stutter in each stride where sigils on cuisses and vambraces fought one another for authority. Nothing the knight did was his own doing—it was a dozen ancient commands arguing in a single body.
(He's no longer human. Just a puppet dancing on cursed threads.)
Griselda's verdict cracked like tinder in a hearth, impatience humming down Lyan's arms until the metal haft tingled. He tasted copper on his tongue—the familiar tang of lightning waiting for release.
(End it swiftly. He's too dangerous now.)
