The dune dropped away like a trapdoor to hell.
Merlin didn't jump.
He slipped.
Deliberate.
Sand shifted under his boots and gravity took over. He let it.
The trialer followed, his knife was low, balance perfect, cloak snapping like a flag of impending violence.
Merlin twisted mid-slide, heel carving into the slope. The scroll buzzed under his coat like it knew it was being hunted.
He reached.
Not for his blade.
For the air.
Wind bent under his hand, curved behind him, and shoved him just enough to push his body sideways into a tighter line. The trialer's slash skimmed past him by inches, throwing sparks off a hidden blade.
'That would've gone through a lung.'
[The Messenger is eating grapes.]
[They like your form. Your enemy's is better.]
Merlin gritted his teeth. "Stop heckling me."
The trialer flicked forward again, this time not a stab. A grab.
Straight for the scroll.
Merlin let go of wind and snapped time.
Just a touch.
The slide slowed briefly, only for him.
