Bram reached Mira before her second step could become a second strike.
Her first had caught the edge of Rook’s guard rather than his throat. The impact rang through the chamber feed, a small, ugly noise almost lost beneath the apparatus. Rook recoiled against the control stand. Beside him, a diagonal support shifted in its socket. One pressure-board engineer ducked. The other could not; his leg was caught beneath a fallen section of the station’s lower frame.
Bram put his forearm between Mira and the opening she wanted.
She turned the blade before it touched him. He saw that much and would remember it without making it into forgiveness. She had recognized him. She had chosen not to cut through him. Behind his shoulder, Rook still had a hand near the controls.
“Move,” she said.
“Two workers.”
“I know.”
“Then look at where your next strike lands.”
