The captain's blade pressed cold against Silas's throat.
"Yield," she repeated, louder this time—performing for the crowd, for the nobles, for the judge who waited with horn raised.
Silas felt the edge bite into his skin. Not deep. Just enough to draw a thin line of blood.
His heart hammered.
His mind raced.
And then he triggered.
-----
Every illusion he'd been holding in reserve—every half-formed copy, every flickering shadow—exploded outward simultaneously.
Seven versions of Silas materialized around the captain.
All lunging.
All armed.
All wrong in subtle ways—angles slightly off, movements just delayed enough to feel unnatural.
The captain's eyes widened.
Her training screamed at her: block, parry, counter.
She twisted, blade sweeping in a perfect arc, deflecting the nearest illusion—
It passed through her sword like smoke.
The second illusion lunged from behind—
She spun, blocking—
Smoke again.
The third, fourth, fifth—
All smoke.
