He vanished.
There was no glamour to it, just a clean subtraction of friction from the air where he wanted to move. He reappeared at my back, his palm glowing with that hungry, editing fire, aimed for the base of my skull.
Down, Valeria snarled in my hand.
I dropped, folding my body into an impossibly low angle, and stabbed backward with an ugly little reverse thrust. There was no dignity in the move, only utility. It had no grand ending for his Ember to cancel; it was simply a sharp piece of metal arriving in a specific spot. He had to move.
He answered with something new. The Requiem Ember gave a low, resonant thrum. This wasn't about canceling my attack; it was about enforcing his. A decree washed over the battlefield, a statement of absolute policy: this next flame will be the last decision inside the space it touches.
