Zhao Yan said, his voice low and deadly.
They didn't. They lunged at him as one.
He met them head-on, blade flashing once, twice, the air singing with the speed of it. One fell, clutching a ruined throat. The other stumbled back, blade clattering to the floor as he clutched at the gash across his belly.
And then, Zhao Yan was alone at the base of the dais, his breathing steady, his blade dripping red.
He turned his head, his eyes finding Hua Jing across the chaos—still fighting, her blade flashing as she forced another soldier back.
Their eyes met.
No words needed.
She gave a single, defiant nod.
The hall was a storm of blades and fury. Blood streaked the marble floors, the air thick with the sharp scent of iron and the bitter tang of sweat.
