"Wounded animals are always the most dangerous."
***
The shaman's confidence cracked like ice in spring.
Fractures spread across its composure faster than it could repair them. Its towering form, which had seemed so imposing moments before, now appeared hunched and uncertain. The burning light in its eyes dimmed. Flickered like torches in a wind.
"What are you?" it whispered.
"Disappointed," the figure replied without missing a beat.
"My turn."
He moved.
Rhys's eyes couldn't track the motion.
One moment the figure stood several feet away. Hands empty and posture relaxed as if he were waiting for tea to be served.
The next, he was beside the shaman.
Close enough to touch. Close enough that Rhys could see individual stitches on his grey robes.
There had been no blur of movement. No sound of footsteps. No displacement of air that should have accompanied such speed.
