It happened so fast I didn't even have the chance to blink.
One moment, Jinway the Silverscale stood there, frozen mid-step, his mouth still trying to form the word how—and the next, the Stitched Man's maul descended like the judgment of some bored god who had grown tired of waiting for permission.
There was no flourish, no roar, no display of power—just one single swing. A dull, wet sound followed, and suddenly the Fishman ceased to be a person and became something far less dignified.
The sand where he'd stood erupted into a cloud of red mist, and for a breathless heartbeat the entire world held still.
The crowd's gasp hit like a collective intake of breath before suffocating itself. It was absolute silence—so thick you could have poured it into a jar and sold it as a luxury perfume to nobles who liked the smell of terror.
My throat went dry, my stomach twisted, and the only thought that drifted through my skull like a stunned moth was: Well. That escalated quickly.
