The stolen body smiled with Ty's mouth, and every fighter in the arena stepped back from it.
That scared Ty more than the charge had.
People ran from blades. They ran from fire, from beasts, from kings, from crowds hungry enough to turn mercy into gambling odds.
Experienced killers ran from bargains.
The sickles shook in Ty's hands.
Bone dust fell from his left wrist in soft red flakes. Each grain hit the stone and sparked against a line he had cut wrong. His fingers closed around the handles through pain that should have been impossible for a body made from death.
The silver tangle between him and his old flesh tightened.
The body wearing his face leaned forward.
"Again," it said.
Ty lifted both blades.
Omina arrived between them in a sweep of golden-green light.
She came sideways, one palm toward the stolen body, one palm toward Ty's ribs. Her aura pressed the silver tangle flat. The tangle resisted, vibrating like a wire stretched across teeth.
