The sword pressed against Avin's neck—so close that he could feel the cold whisper of steel kissing skin. One inch deeper, and it would open him clean from throat to spine. The pressure drew a thin bead of warmth down his collarbone. He could smell the metal, taste it in the air—the scent of blood mixing with the faint tang of ozone left by the mana they had both been throwing around.
The guard's arms shook from the force of the strike, the blade still grinding against Avin's skin. Everything around them trembled: the tiles beneath, the air between, even the torches mounted by the academy gate. The entire courtyard seemed to be holding its breath.
And then—time faltered.
