Cassio doesn't come running.
That's the first problem.
When someone runs, they hand you weight, intention, line of entry. A hurried body makes a lot of noise. Cassio only steps forward once. Then again. Spear low. Right elbow tucked close to his ribs.
The new guard shortens his reach by a fraction, but it takes my best answers off the table. No big rotations. No clean opening at the shoulder. No more arrogant parade-ground posture built for the crowd. The spear is a tool now.
The leaf-head comes straight for my chest.
Eventide ignites at the last instant. Just enough to push the steel off the line of my heart, the point scratching my shoulder as it passes.
Cassio accepts the deflection and pivots the haft into a spin. I have to drop low. The shaft passes over my head, taking a few strands of hair with it. Before I can rise, the point is already coming back under, aimed at my belly.
He isn't attacking in separate strikes.
It's a continuous sentence. Notes in a piece of music.
