In the quiet check room, Seyun stood facing the northern plaster wall with his eyes shut and his bandaged hands held level at his sides. Six paces behind his back, he heard the soft leather creak of Ilyra’s sling and the light lift of her new marsh-iron spear from the side bench.
Beside the oak dresser, Mina didn’t utter a breath. She watched Ilyra’s boots move silently across the scrubbed pine floorboards into the open five-pace space behind Seyun’s shoulders.
Ilyra held the five-foot ash shaft in her good left hand. She stopped four feet behind Seyun’s spine. Her dark eyes were fixed on the back of his neck. Without moving a muscle of her boots or shifting her weight on the floorboards, she formed a sharp, deliberate mental intention. Picturing in every trained detail the high, inside-line throat thrust of White Heron’s third hall form, focusing her mind on the exact spot between his shoulder blades as though she were about to drive the iron point through his coat.
She held the thought for three seconds, then switched her mental intention to a low sweep against his left ankle.
“Tell me which line I just chose, Seyun,” Ilyra said quietly.
