The swordsman lay on the market stones.
His sword was three feet away, and his travelling coat half-draped across his legs from where it had fallen off the stall.
His expression was not defeat. It was the expression of a man who had asked a question and received an answer bigger than the question itself.
Alistair's Rune Sword was still in his hand. His breathing was controlled, however, his heart was hammering against his chest.
The third move had required everything the Equalizer had, condensed into a fraction of a second, and the effort was sitting in his muscles like a debt that hadn't been collected yet.
The morning light was grey and flat. The merchants watching from behind their stalls were frozen in the particular silence of people who had witnessed something they couldn't explain.
"You're not fighting yet."
The swordsman's voice was quiet, not performing for the crowd that had gathered around them.
Alistair furrowed his brows.
"Not really," the swordsman continued.
