There was something brushing against him, something that didn't belong in the battlefield—like a touch that wasn't physical, yet slid over his skin with the precision of a lover's hand and the detachment of a surgeon, as if someone beyond this realm was peeling into him, threading their presence through his body with a curiosity too silent to ignore, and though he couldn't see them or name them, the sensation tightened his focus for a moment, just enough to annoy him, just enough to distract him when distraction could mean death, so he did what he always did when the world tried to pull his attention away; he pushed forward, faster, harder, with the full intent to finish the beast in front of him before that invisible pressure could get in the way again.