Lor didn't think. His hand lifted, a subtle flick of his fingers hidden in the brush, mana coiling quick and quiet.
Wind bent sharp, snapping branches as it gusted in a targeted burst.
The short-blade man's strike veered wide, the knife scraping her shoulder instead of sinking into her ribs, tearing fabric but drawing only a thin line of blood.
Ameth pivoted instantly, as if she'd read the miss like a page in a book.
Her axe handle whipped up, cracking him under the chin with a dull thud. His head snapped back, eyes rolling.
Before he could fall, her boot drove into his chest, sending him sprawling across the dirt with a choked grunt, the blade skittering from his limp fingers.
Lor pressed himself lower in the brush, his heart racing, palms slick with sweat.
Close. Too close.
He'd barely intervened, a whisper of wind to tip the scales, but it had been enough.
