Once again, Tristan created the spike, a fist-encompassing growth of rock laced with metal veins. Once again, Byron felt his nonexistent pulse pounding out its diffuse alarm into a darkness without bounds or perspective.

Tristan broke into a run to close the distance. The sudden movement drew Paris’s attention. Needles were thrown.

Tristan swapped out for Byron. The spike broke apart into water and ice shards, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that momentum didn’t carry over one hundred percent. Byron could pivot, run another direction, then swap again.

This is what I had in mind.

Their more unpredictable movements upped the pressure on Paris. Tristan materialized, created his spike. He had to abandon it a moment later, but he was a few steps closed by the time they’d swapped and changed direction twice in five seconds.

The next time he had a turn, on impulse, almost out of a weird gratitude to his brother, Byron set up the spike for Tristan. As Tristan materialized, punching out, the spike formed around his hand.

Byron felt the smile, almost more of a grimace.

Furcate was close enough to slash at Paris, who kicked them firmly in the stomach. The other two Furcates were on him a moment later, one with spikes on chains instead of claws.

Paris backed away, then moved his hands in a new way, slow, as if drawing a blade out of his sleeve.

Not a needle or a dart. This looked more like a railroad spike.

The spike was hurled toward the ground in the midst of the Furcates. The result was a detonation, not a geyser, scattering them.

Coiffure was next. She tumbled, her hair going limp.

No!

Tristan was silent.

Tribute fixated on Tristan. Byron could feel the strength, the increase in heart rate, and the way that cognitive processing sped up until the rest of the world seemed to move slower.

Tribute would be a sitting duck, dumb, slow, weak and fragile, so long as he was giving this kind of strength. One thrown attack like what Paris was pulling out of his sleeve would destroy Tribute.

But Tristan was slowing, changing course. He switched out to Byron, letting the spike at one hand fall away.

Byron could change direction, doing his best to add to the zig-zag, placing his feet carefully. He switched back to Tristan.

Tristan wasn’t focused on Paris.

Tristan looked at Furcate, at the Furcates, plural. When he looked back over one shoulder, he didn’t look at his teammates. It was at the ice.

Paris threw a railroad spike. Tristan ducked it, letting it detonate. Then, still in slow motion, still with some augmented power from Tribute, that power slipping away with every moment as Tribute went on the offense, Tristan charged.

Another throw from Paris, and Tristan twisted, absorbing the hit, before tumbling to the ground.