Seret jammed the dagger beneath the locking ring, and its edge scraped the pin until the sleeve shrieked at him. The noise reached his teeth before the hound left the floor, pinning his right hand above the heat beneath it.
Ten winters away, Lansa's fingers reached for his foot across snow that this bronze rim refused to hold.
'Not that hand again, not while this one can still close around a damned blade.'
He slammed his helmet against the casing before his grip opened, and pain split the wet cut above his brow. His left hand clamped the wrist holding the dagger while his heel braced against stone, keeping the point beneath bronze.
"Stone," he hissed through his teeth, grinding his foot harder against the rim.
"Move the damned hand, you old bastard."
The hound's shadow swept across his sleeve while he threw both hands down against the dagger's guard.
