The wind shifts through the canal below.
He lunges first this time.
Not testing.
Committing.
I meet him.
Steel rings hard.
He drives forward with more force than before — not reckless, but decisive. His rhythm changes. Faster. Cleaner. Less exploratory.
He stops studying.
He starts executing.
That's the difference.
I adjust.
Shift left.
He anticipates.
Blade catches mine mid-rotation and locks it at an angle I can't easily reverse.
He steps into my space.
Forces my arm higher than I want.
His strength isn't overwhelming.
It's precise.
Leverage, not power.
I twist.
Try to break the bind.
Too late.
He pivots, foot hooking behind my ankle just enough—
Not a sweep.
A calculation.
My balance falters.
I recover—
But he's already repositioned.
Steel flashes.
The flat of his blade strikes my wrist.
Controlled.
Sharp enough to numb.
My fingers loosen involuntarily.
My sword hits stone.
The sound echoes longer than I like.
He doesn't hesitate.
His blade rests at my throat before I fully regain stance.
Not pressing.
Just present.
Close enough that I feel the cool edge against sun-warmed skin.
Silence.
Wind moving below.
His breathing steady.
Mine controlled.
"You compensate well," he says quietly.
Annoying.
I don't look at the blade.
I look at him.
"If you intended to kill me," I say, "you would have done it already."
A pause.
Not long.
But real.
His jaw tightens slightly.
Not with rage.
With restraint.
"You're not my objective," he says.
There it is.
Not denial.
Clarification.
"Then what is?" I ask.
"You."
The faintest irritation in his eyes when he says it.
As if the answer displeases him.
He lowers the blade from my throat.
Steps back first.
Again.
Pattern.
"Stand," he says.
I don't rush.
I retrieve my weapon.
He doesn't interfere.
That's intentional.
"I was instructed to evaluate risk," he continues. "And if necessary, remove it."
"And?"
"You're not removable."
Not mercy.
Assessment.
"Yet," he adds.
Professional.
There's something colder about that.
He sheathes his blade.
No flourish.
No satisfaction.
"You're coming with me," he says.
Not aggressive.
Not forceful.
Matter-of-fact.
I consider my options.
I could run.
Possibly evade.
But if he shifts focus—
Roald.
Wilkinson.
No.
I sheath my sword slowly.
He watches every micro-movement.
Not in distrust.
In habit.
"Good," he says quietly.
No triumph.
No smirk.
Just relief so faint most wouldn't see it.
But I do.
He walks beside me, not behind.
Not dragging.
Not touching.
Distance maintained.
Professional.
Yet something in his posture is tighter than before.
As if the fight unsettled more than just calculation.
We descend from the aqueduct.
The city grows louder with every step.
Shadows stretch long across the stone.
"You misjudged my balance," I say.
"You misjudged my reach."
A beat.
Then—
"I won't again."
Neither will I.
We reach the edge of the older district.
He slows.
Only slightly.
I notice.
Of course I do.
"You intend to parade me through the streets?" I ask.
"No."
And that is the only warning I get.
He moves without telegraphing.
Fast.
Closer than before.
I react on instinct.
Draw—
Steel flashes between us again.
One clean exchange.
Second—
I force him back half a step.
Third—
He rotates inside my guard.
And this time, the blade does not strike flat.
It kisses skin.
A shallow line across my forearm.
Precise.
Too precise.
We separate.
I feel it then.
Not pain.
Not properly.
A warmth spreading from the cut.
Unnatural.
My grip shifts.
Too slow.
His eyes sharpen.
"You prepared," I say.
The word tastes metallic.
"I prefer predictable outcomes."
The wind rises.
The aqueduct seems farther away now.
My pulse thickens.
Vision edges blur.
I step forward anyway.
Force engagement before whatever he used takes hold fully.
Three exchanges.
Four.
On the fifth, my timing fractures.
Half a heartbeat too late.
He turns my blade aside cleanly.
Hooks my wrist.
Twists.
My sword falls again.
This time I do not reach it.
He steps in.
Blade at my throat once more.
But he does not speak.
He watches.
Waiting.
Measuring how long I remain upright.
Stubbornness carries me two breaths longer than it should.
I refuse to sway.
Refuse to blink.
His expression shifts.
Not surprise.
Recalculation.
"You're inconvenient," I manage.
A muscle tightens in his jaw.
"Yes."
The world tilts.
Stone softens beneath my boots.
My knees fold without permission.
He moves before I hit the ground.
An arm at my back.
Another at my shoulder.
He adjusts his grip when my head nearly strikes stone — a correction he didn't need to make.
The last thing I see is the city lights beginning to glow below us.
And his face above mine.
Unsettled.
Then the dark closes.