The blade flashed toward him—a streak of silver heat carving through the air so swiftly that it blurred.By the time Avin registered the movement, the sword was already upon him, only an inch from his face.If the boy had truly intended to kill him, it would have been over before Avin could even think of flinching.
Instinct took command.He shut his eyes tight, every muscle locking. His lungs froze mid-breath.The sound came—whoosh—a rushing gust that bent the firelight.
And then… silence.
No sting of steel.No tear of flesh.No warmth blooming across his chest.
He waited, stiff as stone, afraid that even opening his eyes might invite the delayed pain of death. Seconds stretched thin. His heartbeat filled his ears, hammering louder than the ringing he expected from a mortal wound.
Tentatively, he lifted one trembling hand and touched his chest.Nothing.No cut, no blood—only the steady rhythm of life beating beneath his palm.
