The courtyard failed before he reached its center.
Stone fissured beneath his step, fractures racing outward in thin, branching lines. The collapse was quiet—too quiet—like something yielding rather than breaking. Dust chased him in a low, trailing wake.
The air tightened around him.
Not pressure. Not quite.
More like space itself had been stretched thin—strained by the presence forcing its way through it.
They engaged anyway.
Five figures advanced as one, formation snapping into place with practiced precision. Their spacing was exact, their blades angled to intercept, to corral, to kill.
Anton didn't slow.
The first strike came from his blind side—soundless, perfectly timed.
He shifted a fraction.
Steel sliced empty air.
His hand rose, closing around the attacker's arm mid-swing. There was no struggle, no contest of strength.
The limb collapsed in his grip.
Not bent—crushed.
