Charlotte was the first to move, launching forward like a striking panther. Her jaguar instincts ignited behind narrowed eyes, she slashed at Biant's chest with clawed fingers glowing faintly with myst energy. Her movements were swift and calculated, aimed not to toy, but to incapacitate.
But Biant? He barely shifted his footing.
With a lazy flick of his wrist, the scalpel-like knife he had drawn from the desk met her swipe, sliding against her attack and redirecting her momentum as if guiding a dance partner offbeat. She stumbled slightly—not from a lack of skill, but from sheer surprise.
Liam followed a breath later, his dagger cutting in low, aimed toward Biant's ribs from the right. His eyes were locked on the man's center of gravity, waiting for the smallest tell—a shift in balance, a glance, a breath.
Again, Biant moved effortlessly.
