He didn't announce the next law. It simply arrived, a quiet decision the room made while no one was looking. "Distance is treacherous."
The floor didn't shift or crack. Its intent did. The clean, reliable squares where my feet liked to land suddenly developed tiny, malicious personalities. The obvious approach lines grew potholes that only a committed decision could feel. The space between us became unreliable, stretching or shrinking by an inch whenever I put my weight down.
The Archduke moved the way good clocks move: once, and correctly. He slid into the middle distance and fed misdirection into the miasma with a flick of his thumb. A veil dropped from above like a closing curtain. An after-blade of solid miasma drifted into place behind my right shoulder, as patient as gossip. Then he launched a straight, sensible cut at the place my head would be if I did what habit and bad posture wanted.
