His body twitched.
A small, sharp motion—barely more than a breath through strained muscle.
But it was deliberate.
And with it, something shifted.
His spine arched subtly. Fingers curled tighter against stone. Blood slicked his arm but no longer flowed freely. The ground beneath him no longer blurred—it waited.
SWOOSH.
That sound again.
That whisper of something slicing through air.
But this time—
His hand moved.
Fast. Controlled.
Not wild.
Certain.
Fingers snapped up with perfect timing, cutting through the air—
Clack.
His palm closed around something.
Momentum jerked his arm slightly, but his grip held firm.
He didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Slowly—deliberately—he turned his head, still pressed half to the dust.
His eyes fell on what he held.
It wasn't metal.
Wasn't wood.
It looked like an arrow, but not one forged or carved. A long, thin needle of darkened crystal and sinew, feathered with flickering strands of shadow that hadn't been made but grown.
