Deacon had never felt this in control in his life. And yet the irony was that he wasn't in control of the slightest things. Every movement flowed into the next, as though he wasn't deciding what came next based on timing, training, or even instinct, but instead some higher power that had dictated that this was what made the most sense in the moment.
It was a martial art of grace, of beauty, of purity. It embodied the Dove, and as he moved, one elegant arc of his sword following into the next, it was like he was plucking the strings of a symphony, one harmony layering atop the next until his body split so many different ways and down so many different iterations he ceased being capable of losing.
Yes. This was how a Dove should attack, it was the only way a Dove could attack, the only way that made sense.
