The shadow-steel blade cut through the cold, stagnant air of the archive with absolute, lethal silence.
Lyss Myrvalis lunged, driving her full weight behind the dagger, aiming directly for the gap between her apprentice's collarbone and the gray fabric of her unadorned robes. It was a flawless strike, born of two centuries of Ghost School training.
Sera Myrvalis did not move.
She did not draw a weapon. She did not raise her hands to block. She did not even blink. She stood perfectly still, anchored to the heavy ironwood desk, watching the blade descend with the cold, clinical detachment of an archivist reading a ledger.
The dagger stopped exactly one inch from Sera's throat.
The kinetic force of Lyss's lunge was absorbed not by magic or steel, but by a massive, gauntleted hand that shot out from the geometric shadows behind her.
