The broadsword did not descend upon Signe’s neck.
Jon moved with the instinct of a man lunging to catch an iron kettle before it tips into an open fire. He stepped into the path of the swing, slamming his left shoulder against Cael’s silver breastplate with enough force to knock the knight off balance. The heavy broadsword cleaved empty air, whistling shrilly before lodging deep into the timber back of an oak pew with a sickening, splintering crunch.
Cael stumbled back, his armored boots skidding across the grit, wrenching the blade free with a shower of oak splinters. He did not strike at Signe again.
He turned his full, terrifying focus back upon Jon Hale.
The manic, shouting rage had drained from the knight’s face, replaced by a low, dead stillness that was infinitely more monstrous. His pale eyes were flat, hollowed out of every human emotion, operating purely on the cold arithmetic of tactical leverage. He was an officer assessing the remaining supply lines after a gate has fallen, calculating the exact pressure point required to force an unconditional surrender.
“You care about the magistrate’s depositions, Hale,” Cael said, his voice dropping into a conversational whisper that barely carried over the crackle of burning roof timbers outside. “You care about ancient municipal laws, stamped tax receipts, and scraped titles on aqueduct lintels. You believe that by standing in the center of this aisle with your chin lifted, you are playing the martyr for an imperial record that nobody will…
