Then…
A sharp whistle of steel tore the air.
The merchant snarled as a dagger buried itself in his wrist, the sword jerking from Damian's neck as blood welled hot and fast.
Damian's head turned, hazel eyes wide. And there, striding out of the shadows with all the cold certainty of execution was… Leroy.
The "merchant" howled, clutching his wrist. His sword clattered against the ground, useless in his bleeding hand.
Damian didn't waste his second chance. He rolled, snatching his fan back from the dirt, snapping it open in one fluid motion. His chest burned, his hair hung loose and damp across his brow, but his grin that was sharp and reckless, was back in place.
"Well," he panted, "that was close. You took your time."
