Moments later,

Aria

Lucas lunged. He didn't use a technique; he used his weight, his fingers hooked like claws as he reached for my throat, his face a mask of pure, unbridled rage.

I didn't draw a knife. I didn't even drop my flask.

I sensed the displacement of air, the frantic, messy rhythm of his heartbeat. I waited until I felt the heat of his breath on the back of my neck.

I pivoted, caught his lead wrist with a grip that made his silver bracer groan, and used his own momentum against him.

THUD.

Lucas flew. He sailed over my shoulder, his armor clattering like a sack of...