Back in the arena, the pack had realized he was no longer responding. Taking advantage of the distraction, they began their assault. Each in turn dived towards him to make a decisive blow. Each, however, was deftly deflected. Romulus’ body was not his own. His moves were fluid, serene.
Pilsat’s daggers careened in threes, giving his quarry no quarter like the drunken monks of old. Romulus’ body dipped backwards, squarely balancing on the pads of his right foot, his back parallel to the ground. Reaching above him, he plucked each of the blades from the air like roses in a garden. And with the grace of a cat, his body contorted, hurling each blade towards one of the mutts intent on ending his existence. With his eyes still a haze of gray and yellow mist, Romulus’ body righted itself.
The c
