Chapter 34: Death and Defiance
It was a waltz with bruises.
That was the only way I could describe it. Mavus and I moved through the dust-choked tent like twin blades carving through fog—every breath a prelude, every step a punctuation mark in some dark, unwritten opera. No music but the thrum of blood and the occasional symphony of grinding sand beneath our feet.
His fist clipped my jaw—again—and stars bloomed across my vision like drunk fireflies. I stumbled back, only to pivot off a collapsing scaffold and launch myself into a low, sweeping kick.
He leapt over it.
Show-off.
Bare-chested and bleeding, Mavus Grey fought like a man with no tomorrow—which, given the company he kept, was perhaps not merely a figure of speech. He ducked, rolled, and slammed his shoulder into my ribs with the elegant desperation of a dying swan mid-bar fight.
We crashed into a painted cutout of some long-forgotten strongman act. The wood shattered. I spat a splinter and rebounded with a sharp elbow to his temple. He reeled but didn’t fall.
Neither of us had fallen yet.
The tent swayed above us like a half-deflated balloon, canvas sighing with every impact. Lights flickered—somehow still alive, blinking like hungover angels.
I vaulted onto a rusted trapeze swing left dangling overhead. It wobbled perilously, but I used the momentum to somersault down behind him and plant a solid punch squarely between his shoulder blades.
Mavus staggered back and caught himself on a support beam, then twisted and came at me with a low hook. I blocked it just in time—barely—our skin scraping like flint.