"There," he said. "Time‑out corner."
"Charming," Lyan said.
The fight swirled on.
Lyan moved like a blade that had been sharpened by a thousand repetitions. He wasted no step, no breath. Every dodge turned into a counter. Every catch turned into a throw. He guided men into each other, into pillars, into the edges of tables, until the tavern itself seemed to fight on his side.
Will was fire where Lyan was water. He threw himself into punches with the stubborn joy of a man who liked contact. His blows were quick, tight, and unpretentious—elbows to ribs, knees to thighs, a fist to the jaw. He took hits and gave them back with interest.
"Counting," Will puffed as he slammed a heel into someone's chest. "That's three."
"You're already behind," Lyan replied, ducking under a wild swing and driving his palm into a man's chin. "I've felled four."
"Lies," Will said. "I saw you bounce one off another. That only counts as half."
