Sorel pressed.
She had found one fracture line and the crowd was behind her and Silith's shoulder was compromised and every instinct she had said this was the moment to build on what she'd opened. She came forward with purpose—not recklessly, not abandoning the precision that made her dangerous, but with genuine momentum, the kind that came from landing something real and knowing it.
She targeted the shoulder again.
Same location. Same angle.
Silith let her come.
That was the thing Sorel didn't process quickly enough—Silith let her come. Didn't slip the strike, didn't redirect, didn't do any of the minimal evasions she had been using to keep Sorel at distance. She absorbed the second strike to the compromised shoulder and in the same motion her right hand came across and found Sorel's left forearm.
Full contact this time.
Not fingertips. Palm.
