The heavy, iron-banded wooden dummy in the courtyard of Villa 1 was built to withstand the kinetic output of an enraged Sentinel.
Vane drove his star-steel spear into its center mass with a vicious, two-handed thrust. The sharp, kinetic impact cracked the heavy wood, sending a violent vibration traveling up the dark metal shaft and into his bones.
He exhaled a harsh breath, drawing the spear back into a readied stance. The humid spring air was stifling, clinging to his skin like a wet rag. Sweat matted his dark hair to his forehead, and his red eyes were fixed on the splintered wood, burning with a cold, analytical paranoia.
Your fangs are too dull. Nyx's written warning looped endlessly in his mind, echoing with every thrust and parry. For the past two weeks, Vane had been trying to mathematically deconstruct the attack in the western woods. He had run the scenarios hundreds of times in his head, and every single time, the equation ended in a fatal error.
