A razor note sang.
Sword light leapt from a kilometer away and stopped at Orson's nose. Killing intent crawled over his skin like a million ants.
He didn't flinch. One brow lifted, calm as ever, eyes on the edge a hair's breadth from his face.
"Say that again. Who's the elder here, and who would I ever look twice at?"
Bellara's brows knit tight. The cold fury rolling off her was real.
"Why so worked up then?"
Orson smiled, easy and infuriating, studying the woman before him. She was suffocatingly strong, but he was no easy fruit to squeeze. If he dropped the seal, her fate would be anyone's guess.
"I admit you're… unusual," Bellara said, voice low. "But I've seen plenty of 'unusual.' Even with your six-shift talent, under my ten thousand blades you're dust."
Light rippled. Behind her, the air was suddenly full of suspended weapons, a silent storm. Bellara stood at the center like an undying warlord, all killing edge and rule.
