Liam came from Mabel's rear right, both daggers flickering in and out of sight as his shadow trailed unnaturally beneath him. He attacked with no obvious rhythm—high stab, low slash, reverse grip thrust, a sudden spin that brought the butt of one dagger toward her temple. It was not elegant swordsmanship in the traditional sense. It was murderous adaptability. Every angle chosen to exploit the split-second attention she had spent on the others.
Mabel met him with terrifying calm.
Her blade moved like an extension of instinct. She parried one dagger, turned her shoulder to let another skim past, trapped his wrist briefly against the flat of her sword, then forced him off line with a burst of water from under his feet. Liam adjusted in midstep, shadow spilling beneath him as though it wanted to drag him back into balance, but Mabel was already pressing.
Her strikes came tighter now.
Cleaner and faster.
