The miasma kept breathing. The steel kept talking. The laws kept landing like quiet, unshakable verdicts. I had finally stopped pretending my swordsmanship could win this fight walking alone. It had been taken off the throne and handed a toolbelt, and in losing the crown it had become useful again.
The Archduke turned distance into a liar with a single casual step. I let the Grey file the two squares of stone my feet actually cared about under 'ordinary', so his lies about the space between us didn't land there. He tried to sell me a wide, open lane to his flank; I asked what it cost, decided it was too expensive, and bought the ugly, cramped one beside it. He seeded after-blades of solid miasma in the shadow of my shoulder; I moved in ways that made my shoulders dull, uninteresting targets.
