“Take your friend and walk away.” Gyre glared at her, but something shifted in his mismatched eyes. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Maya gritted her teeth. “You won’t.”

She charged, and Gyre stood to receive her. Silver blade met blazing haken, and to Maya’s shock Gyre’s weapon stood up to the test, halting her blow inches from his face. He slipped away, disengaged, shockingly fast, and she had to parry as she fell back. Sparks flew and crackled whenever the weapons met, falling in showers around them. Maya gave ground, tried a riposte, but Gyre seemed to know where her sword was going before she did. He sidestepped, and his blade licked out, touching her shoulder. She waited for the panoply flare, the wave of cold, but it didn’t come—instead there was a crackle of discharging energy, and the point of the silver sword bit through her coat with a spike of pain. Maya jumped back, putting a hand to the wound, and it came away covered in fresh blood.

Gyre waited, sword ready. He inclined his head. “Like I said. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Maya felt her heart lurch and sought for calm.

Arcana. He’d found something, scavenging in the dark places under Deepfire. That eye, that sword. Apparently it could break a panoply and deflect deiat. Ghoul arcana. It must be. But it has to have limits.

She glanced again at the titanic plaguespawn, and her resolve hardened. I can’t let anyone bring that into the world. Not even my brother.

Maya shifted her grip on her haken and attacked.

This time she moved cautiously, drawing on every lesson in swordsmanship Jaedia had ever drilled into her. Her mentor had insisted that she practice, blade against blade. Maya heard her voice, that lilting, musical accent, as haken and sword clashed again.

“Most centarchs rely too much on their panoply. It’s a useful tool, but it can be a crutch. You need to be good enough to fight without one …”

She’d done that once already, hazarding her bare skin against Tanax’s twisting deiat power. Whatever arcana Gyre had found, he had only a sword.

Sparks exploded outward as they came together, clashed, and broke apart. Gyre was fast, and his accuracy was uncanny. Sometimes it was all Maya could do to match him. But she was better, trickier. Jaedia’s lessons ran through her, the haken feeling like an extension of her arm, flexing and striking and drawing back with a fluidity that Gyre couldn’t match. He nicked her again, on the leg, came close to landing a strike on her side. But she twisted out of the way and slammed home a counterattack he barely parried. She pressed him, not letting up. His blade wove a cage of silver and sparks around him, but he started to give ground, step-by-step.