The cracking of ice was the first and only warning I was given. Breaks and cracks accumulated into the thrust of a pairing sword. It grew closer and closer to my neck. Yet it was ultimately stopped.
Not by any physical force. No, that was far too juvenile… far too much work for me. Instead the man was stopped in his tracks by a trio of blades pointed at his extremities. The heart, the throat and brain.
One more step and they would've pierced each and every point. It was only by the grace of the man's instincts that he was able to stop that burst of motion and preserve his pathetic life.
I scoffed and snapped my fingers, the blades pushed further and drew blood. Each second ticked with explosive tension. For in the outer reaches of the man's consciousness, he knew that any move he made would be met by death. A quiet and gory death. One that no manner of action would prevent.
