The paved stones cracked beneath his boots as he lunged forward, blade cutting through the air in a blazing arc of crimson light.
Both men moved at once.
However.
The blows never landed.
A third figure slipped between them with impossible timing. Two broad hands shot out—one swallowing Michael's knuckles, the other catching Ryn's sword.
The shock traveled through the stranger's forearms and into the ground with a dull, heavy whump. Dust ringed their feet.
He was a burly youth built like a fortress—thick shoulders, corded neck, forearms dense as stone. He wore the plain, sleeveless training top and loose, dark trousers bound at the shins.
Lira's breath hitched. "Taris Veld," she whispered.
This was another popular figure.
Year Four—number one. Taris Veld. A Martial Artist.
Even Ryn's entourage stiffened.
Taris' class was the common grade Martial Artist class.
