Tiamat's fist slams into my stomach hard enough to make the air scream. Valeria's liquid-armor shell stress-fractures in a spiderweb burst across my abdomen, Erebus's shadow wedge fails with a dry crack, and my own shield folds like wet paper. Heat detonates through my ribs; my spine bends; the floor rushes up.
I hit crystal on my knees, one hand clamped over my gut, breath sawn short. Consciousness slips like sand between spread fingers.
"That hurt," I manage, because if I don't say something I might groan instead. "Did you have to punch me that hard?"
"If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to take you out." Tiamat shrugs, as if we are discussing weather and not my organs. "And how dare you, little swordsman—you swung a blade at my head. I used a fist."
"A fist you spent three thousand years training," I mutter.
Her crimson eyes cut sideways. I look away first.
