Sithe stumbles.
Atana’s blades snick toward his neck.
He rolls out of the way at the last moment and clambers back to his feet, unharmed.
They both retract their weapons and face each other, watchful, breathing heavily.
And then the deathly dance starts again.
Atana stalks him one way, then the opposite direction.
They clash a second time with a similar result—Sithe stumbling, Atana the aggressor—and a third.
Sithe’s exhausted. He’s slowing down. Atana’s totally focused on him, and Sithe barely gets out of the way.
Sithe hasn’t slept the entire time I’ve known him.
Atana speeds up.
Sithe darts behind a stack of crates.
Atana lunges and slices a crate at neck-level.
The boxes topple.
Sithe darts out the other side, shooting a blade at the level of his shoulder.
Atana dives and
