The bone-hilted dagger did not shake in Sir Cael Ardent’s left hand.
The hero had held that same six-inch steel against his own flesh six times before, across six separate endings where the defensive lines had crumbled and the Host had crossed the river. The motion was as smooth, practiced, and familiar to him as lifting an earthenware mug from the tavern counter after a hard ride. He drew the blade upward through the sulfur-stained air, resting the honed edge flat against the warm pulse of his left carotid artery, right below the flare of his bruised jaw.
The cold steel indented the pale skin. A single bead of bright crimson welled up along the razor line, catching the amber light that pulsed through the cracked foundation flags like blood moving through a heated vein.
“Drop the knife, Cael!” Jon lunged across the blood-slicked stones, his calloused hands outstretched, his boots slipping on the pool of cellar silt.
“Stay back, Jon,” Cael said. The hero did not flinch, nor did his hand retreat from his throat. His voice was steady, purged of anger, drained of fear, carrying only the terrifying serenity of a man who had turned self-slaughter into a standard military maneuver. “If you take another stride across those flags, I draw the steel through the windpipe before your boots clear the threshold.”
