I turned sideways, letting the blade graze the air inches from my sleeve, then swept my own blade toward their elbow. They pulled back, allowing me to see a small overextension in the rotation of their wrist. A fraction of a second too slow.
That was all I needed.
I used an illusionary feint: a faint shimmer that made it seem as though my left hand had conjured a spark of flame aimed at their face. Instinctively, they flinched and shifted their arm up to guard. I caught their wrist mid-strike, twisting the joint just enough to disarm them. Their dagger rattled against the marble floor.
They gasped, a sharp intake of breath as pain flared. I angled my blade against their ribs, the steel pressing into the shadowy fabric with enough force to remind them who had the upper hand.
