Rodrick hit the High Priest like a battering ram carved from hell.
His shoulder slammed into the gilded chestplate with all the momentum of a man who had decided that broken bones were a small price to pay for dignity.
The impact rang out across the plaza, sharp and metallic, echoing slightly before being devoured by the noise of battle.
For the briefest of moments—so brief I might have hallucinated it—the priest's body actually tilted. Not much. Not enough to be meaningful. More like a statue swaying an inch because a bird had sneezed too hard on it.
But still, it was something.
And gods help me, in battles like these, something was worth more than miracles. That fraction of hesitation, that imperceptible flicker of diverted attention, was enough for me to claw my way out of the shallow grave I'd been digging.
I scrambled upright, spear back in my grip, lungs working overtime to convince my brain that oxygen was still a commodity I was entitled to.
