Lysaro Waters was laughing.
The melee had become a stage, and he was its mad, blood-slicked performer. His wire-blade sang through the air, slicing through the chaos in elegant arcs. He moved like a drunkard possessed stumbling, spinning, ducking, striking but every motion was deliberate, every blow calculated. He wasn't just fighting. He was entertaining.
A knight in silver plate charged him with a war cry. Lysaro sidestepped, flicked his wrist, and the wire snapped across the man's helm with a clang. The knight reeled, dazed. Lysaro kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling.
"Next!" he called, grinning, arms wide.
The crowd roared.
But then the pressure shifted.
Two men approached one a lean, sharp-eyed mercenary with twin knives and a smirk that didn't reach his eyes; the other, a knight in dark green plate, his sigil obscured by dust and blood. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They moved in tandem, flanking him like wolves.
Lysaro's grin faded slightly.
"Ah," he muttered. "A duet."
The mercenary struck first fast, low, aiming for the legs. Lysaro leapt back, but the knight was already closing in, sword raised high. He twisted, wire flashing, and caught the knight's blade mid-swing. The tension in the line snapped taut but the knight didn't pull away.
He grabbed the wire.
Lysaro's eyes widened. "Clever bastard."
The knight yanked, trying to pull him off balance. The mercenary lunged again but Lysaro spun, using the pull to his advantage. He wrapped the wire around the mercenary's wrist, twisted, and with a flick of his fingers, flung the blade toward the man's throat.
It struck.
Not deep not fatal but enough to send the mercenary stumbling back, clutching his neck, blood seeping between his fingers.
The knight growled and surged forward, sword raised.
Lysaro danced back, breathing hard. His shoulder throbbed from the earlier blow. His wire was slick with blood. His smile was gone.
He reached to his belt, unhooked a small brass canister, and popped the seal.
The scent of fire and fruit filled the air.
He drank.
The liquid burned like wildfire down his throat, igniting his chest, his limbs, his mind. His eyes widened. His muscles tensed. The world slowed.
Firemilk.
He tossed the canister aside and stepped forward not with grace, but with fury.
The knight swung. Lysaro ducked, rolled, came up behind him, and slammed the hilt of his dagger into the back of his knee. The knight staggered. Lysaro spun, wire looping around the man's sword arm. A yank. A twist. The sword clattered to the ground.
But the knight didn't fall.
He tackled Lysaro, driving him into the dirt. They rolled, fists flying, blades forgotten. Lysaro laughed through bloodied teeth, headbutted the man, and kicked him off.
He rose, dagger in hand short, curved, and gleaming.
The knight charged again.
Lysaro met him.
They clashed in a flurry of blows the knight's brute strength against Lysaro's erratic speed. He blocked with the dagger, parried with his forearm, twisted and struck with elbows, knees, even his forehead. He was wild now unpredictable, untethered.
The knight faltered.
Lysaro didn't.
With a final spin, he brought the dagger up under the knight's chin not piercing, but pressing just hard enough to draw a bead of blood.
"Yield," he hissed, eyes blazing.
The knight hesitated.
Then nodded.
Lysaro stepped back, chest heaving, blood dripping from his lip. He looked up at the crowd at the lords and ladies, the merchants and minstrels, the fools and fighters.
He raised his dagger.
And roared.