[ As soon as Daniel moves, the hand on that woman's neck is gone. It's a lunge so empty of technique that it doesn't even deserve the honor of his sword—and yet, that is exactly what it receives, this world so devoid of even the pettiest cause to draw his blade that he can't resist the chance now. With the same casual ease with which a man might bat away a child's hand, Lucius draws and strikes in a single fluid movement, the edge of his blade slicing through the night air toward that little knife.
(Lucius, too, recalls a memory from a boyhood countless lifetimes old: some homeless wretch, an insult, his blade drawn, the spatter of blood pouring from a cut throat, simply to see if he could—)
His sword's edge intercepts the clumsy arc of Daniel's knife—and, if Daniel is unlucky, perhaps a few of the fingers clutching it as well. ]
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(Lucius, too, recalls a memory from a boyhood countless lifetimes old: some homeless wretch, an insult, his blade drawn, the spatter of blood pouring from a cut throat, simply to see if he could—)
His sword's edge intercepts the clumsy arc of Daniel's knife—and, if Daniel is unlucky, perhaps a few of the fingers clutching it as well. ]