The red dust of Fresia settled on Marc's jacket like fine powder. He kept a firm hand on Lira's shoulder, holding her low behind the jagged rocks. Below, the two guards shoved the silver-haired man—Midas—forward. He stumbled, his face a mask of quiet despair.
"Stay here. Don't move, don't make a sound," Marc whispered, his voice barely a breath. "No matter what you see."
Lira's eyes were wide, fixed on her uncle, but she gave a sharp, nervous nod.
Marc didn't need a plan. He was the plan. He took one last look at the scene, calculating angles and distances in a single, fluid thought. Then he moved.
He didn't run. He simply stood up and stepped off the outcrop.
To the guards below, it must have looked like a man had materialized out of the thin air, falling upon them like a rockslide. Marc hit the ground between them and Midas, the impact kicking up a cloud of rust-colored dust.
