Two.
Not Gravekeepers this time. The insignia on the nearest one's belt marked him as Council. They had moved faster than I expected.
They didn't speak.
Professionals.
I shifted, drawing them into an angle where their numbers meant nothing, using the narrow aisle between sagging shelves to nullify their advantage. The corridor was barely wide enough for two people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, with old wooden bookcases looming on either side. If they wanted to circle around me or flank me, they'd have to move through one another—and that lack of space was exactly what I needed.
The first man lunged without warning. I caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the subtle tensing of his right shoulder. He meant to feint high, then dip low to strike at my ribs. A common opening tactic among disciplined fighters, but I recognized it a heartbeat before he committed. My mind took note of every detail: the arc of his blade, the shift of his center of gravity, the angle of his hips.
