His shoulders, nearly double the breadth of my own, rest back in perfect ease. Not an ounce of rigidity mars his posture. No tension. No wasted effort. Only quiet, terrifying control.
Unlike mine, which is coiled tight, as I ready myself to lunge for him.
I take note of it and force my limbs to release some of their strain. My grip loosens slightly on the hilt. My shoulders settle. Breath steadies in my lungs.
The adjustment feels unnatural at first—like stepping into unfamiliar skin—but something within me shifts, unfolding hidden knowledge. Instinct refined into discipline. My mind is teaching my body what it must learn to survive.
It happens often now.
And I trust it.
With a smoother gait and shoulders no longer rigid, I narrow the circle between us, closing the distance inch by careful inch. Time presses against me. The White Horseman’s grand announcement to the new order will be this evening, and I still have preparations to complete before heading to the city. So time is of the essence. But I refuse to let urgency poison my focus.
Instead, I shorten the dance—cutting off the slow ritual of circling before he can stretch it into a game of endurance.
In my mind, Death wears layered leather and armor that creaks softly as he steps closer. The sound drags along my nerves like a warning. His presence alone seems to dim the world around him.
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest, low and grating. “Priestess,” he says, voice smooth with dark amusement. “Put down the blade. You are not yet ready to fight me. You will only hurt yourself.”
“Oh, will I?” I tilt my head, lips curling faintly. “I suppose we shall see.”
“You will lose… again.”
His flippant tone grates, and a scoff escapes me, sharp and contemptuous. My lip lifts in a sneer.
I lurch forward and feign left, shifting my weight at the last instant before driving my blade toward his chest in a vicious arc.
These exchanges that bloom to life within my mind are disturbingly real—so vivid they linger long after the battle ends. They often leave me unsettled for days. In moments like this, when I allow the vision to consume me, the boundary between imagination and reality dissolves.
Another gift of the elixir. Another cost.
It grants me dreams that feel like memories—visions that come both in sleep and waking thought. My instincts have expanded beyond reason. My intuition whispers truths I do not consciously understand.
And sometimes, I see battles I have not yet fought. Brief flashes only. Fractured glimpses of a future yet to come. When they come, they overwhelm the senses. I smell the rot of death thick in the air. I hear the hiss and clash of metal. I feel the sucking pull of mud clawing at my boots, dragging me down as the ground drinks the blood spilled upon it.
I do not yet understand all the ways the elixir has changed me.
Only that it has.
I have learned to adapt—to test its limits, to endure its consequences, to wield what it has turned me into.
Death deflects my next strike with effortless precision, his blade sliding against mine with a shriek of steel. “Come now,” he murmurs, almost gentle. “Must we do this?”
“Yes,” I breathe, tightening my grip. “We must.”
He exhales a put-upon sigh, then he moves so rapidly his form blurs—motion folding into shadow.
Instinct snaps through me. I spin and steel clashes as my blade meets his in a jarring parry that rattles up my arm.
I duck at the last possible instant, the rush of displaced air whispering along my skin. As I rise, I wrench the hidden blade from where it rests inside my shirt at the same time as I drive my elbow sharply into his groin.
“God’s Almighty, woman—” he hisses, doubling slightly as he cups himself.
I don’t hesitate.
Before he can retreat fully, I drag my knife across the thickest part of his thigh. The blade bites. Resistance gives way beneath the edge.
His grunt is low, animalistic, and vibrates, rumbling out of his chest.
