The oldest bandit, the scarred brute, reacted first. He charged forward, raising a massive war hammer that would have crushed bone as sure as the sun set.
The movement was straightforward, driven by the kind of warrior instinct honed over decades of combat.
Sera's response was not combat. It was something that only coincidentally resembled fighting.
Her torso twisted at an angle that should have snapped her spine into fragments. Her head rotated nearly completely backward, her chin approaching her shoulder blade as her body contorted to slip beneath the hammer's downward arc.
The metal head of the war hammer passed within inches of her skull, the displaced air carrying the hot pressure of its passage.
Before the bandit could recover from the missed swing, Sera's right arm unjointed at the shoulder. The joint dislocated with an audible pop, and her limb elongated.
