Tilus was not expecting the pounce. For a time during his charge he might have been wary of a counterattack, but after a while all fights tend to settle into a rhythm. It is the primary weakness of inexperience, the true cost of youthful ignorance, though, that leads young fighters into embracing the pattern. For Tilus, paths like this would have always been in his favor, his superior strength and skill allowing him to lead the dance until he won.

When the dance is forcibly changed, though, such men are often left reeling.

The boy had just brought his blade up for another crossward blow when Raz was suddenly moving at him rather than away from him. To his credit he didn’t hesitate in his strike, bringing it down just as he’d intended, aiming for Raz’s left shoulder. Raz, though, closed the gap between them faster than any steel could fall. He was already beside Tilus by the time the blow would have reached him, and the sword—driven downward with all the hopes of a killing strike—dug into the snow and earth, sticking there. Before the boy had the chance to pull it out, Raz’s foot collided with the back of his weight-bearing leg, bringing him to his knees. He still clung one-handed to the blade, his grasp at an awkward angle with the sword lodged in the ground. Without hesitating, Raz punched down with a mailed fist, crushing the boy’s right shoulder. As Tilus screamed in pain, his hand dropping loosely from the bastard sword’s handle, Raz reached out and pulled the blade free.

Then, in a single motion, he swung the blade around and dragged its razor edge across Brek Tilus’ throat.

If one has never seen the force with which arterial blood can spray, it is a terrifying thing. A gush of red, misting in the icy air, erupted across the snowy ground and stained the stone of the angled wall beside them. Tilus didn’t even have time to choke on his own blood. Raz had cut so quick and so deep that he was gone in seconds, allowing for only one bubbling rasp from his severed windpipe before he was still.

Putting a foot to his back, Raz shoved the boy so that he fell facedown into the slush and mud.

“Fool,” he said sadly, watching the red creep into the brown and white of the snow.