The hammer came down for the third time.
Kira defended—not with a technical block, not with a calculated retreat. She put both hands in front of herself and pushed back with everything she had.
The impact was absurd.
Her feet tore across the stone floor of the dining hall—not breaking it, sliding across it, leaving friction grooves.
The Fat Knight leaned his weight forward, pressing down, trusting the simple mathematics of size and mass against that tiny creature who continued standing for some reason he couldn't process.
It looked like he was winning.
The figure beneath him, small, ears flattened by the effort, tail curled close to her body like something instinctively protecting itself, was giving way. Slowly. But giving way.
Kira spat blood.
Not from a new impact. From accumulated pressure. The kind that came from holding something too heavy for too long.
"Shit."
"This guy is literally heavy."
Kira glowed—not intentionally, not by choice. Out of necessity.
Orange. Hot.
