One moved toward his shoulder, a silent, swift dart. But Vaelric did not move, not in a defensive posture. At the last possible moment, he tilted his body, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift of weight, and the blade passed harmlessly, a breath of cold air against his skin.
The second came toward his chest, a direct thrust. He shifted again, a fluid movement of his torso, barely enough to evade the point, which resulted in another miss.
Again. And again. Soon the two blades were moving faster than the eye could follow, a blur of silver-blue lightning and impossible sharpness. Vaelric stopped trying to predict them. He listened, not with his ears, but with his aura, with every fiber of his being that had just been reshaped by the storm.
