RAGNA POV...
.
.
.
Seriously—did he really think I gave a fuck whether he was a knight or not, or whether his bloodline had a fancy name stitched into a piece of cloth, and more importantly, did he genuinely believe that gave him the right to act like an entitled piece of shit standing in front of me?
I took a step forward.
That was all the opening Freecss needed.
The moment my foot touched the dirt, I felt it—the subtle shift in the air, the faint scrape of fabric, the killing intent compressed into a single point—as his hand slipped beneath his hunter jacket and came back out with a knife already spinning between his fingers, his movements so smooth and practiced that any normal person would've been dead before they even realized an attack had been made.
The blade left his hand in a clean arc.
And missed.
