I barely had time to register it—that sickening, gnawing realization that the mage hadn't fallen to my marks, hadn't bent to my command like every other poor zealot I'd carved into before.
No transformation, no velvet obedience, no sudden pivot to eyeliner and a corset. Nothing. Just obsidian, still and silent, his body humming with a refusal that seemed older than gods.
Which, if you ask me, was very unfair. I put a lot of effort into those marks. A bit of blood, a dash of timing, a sprinkle of panic—that was artisanal spellwork right there.
And what thanks did I get? His boot. His very large, very obsidian-covered boot ramming straight into my ribs.
The world folded in on itself, all breath, bone, and oh shit in chorus as I went sailing like the world's unluckiest carnival prize.
