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Chapter 1374: Worthiness of the Strong

“What did you say?” Negan’s voice went flat with irritation. “Smell of blood? Do you think you’re a dog?”

What is this person on about? Her tone carries ridicule — provocation, even. No ordinary person says something like that to a stranger at first meeting.

Any other day, he might have found it amusing to engage her. But right now, getting out of Sedimentation Bay was everything, and the cleanest solution to a fool was silence.

He tightened his grip and sent the thought to his brother through pressure alone.

The hand holding him did not release. “I think you’re mistaken,” Talos said. “We’re at the docks. The smell of fish and blood together isn’t unusual.”

“The difference between human blood and fish is like the difference between heaven and earth.” The girl remained entirely unbothered. “If there was only one smell, perhaps you could explain it as a wound. But what’s on the two of you is layered — different ages, different sources. Some of it is months old. Some is only two or three days. All of it seeping out from beneath your clothes.”

Beneath our clothes.

Negan stilled.

To any knight worth the title, a well-made suit of armor was the most important asset he owned. Maintained carefully, it outlasted generations. The Murrays had left their land in Everwinter with almost nothing — but they had taken their armor. They wore long coats and robes over it, which was unremarkable in winter. When they killed, they removed the outer layer for mobility and to protect the fabric. The metal surface only needed a wipe and a coat of grease to come back clean and bright.

But this was something no one could know. She could not have reasoned it from sight.

Which meant she had actually smelled it.

A slow unease settled into Negan’s chest.

The hand restraining him went slack.

He had one blink to register it before Talos was already moving — a burst forward that consumed the entire distance between them and the girl in a single motion. No drawn weapon. To a trained veteran, fists and joints were instruments enough. Talos moved with the efficiency of a man who had long since stopped thinking about what he was doing in the moment of doing it.

Even Negan would have had difficulty reacting.

In terms of technique and raw capability, his elder brother was the finest knight Everwinter had ever produced.

Whether this girl was a fool, a lunatic, or simply someone with an extraordinary nose — she was already a dead woman.

Except the sound of breaking was not her neck.

Two crisp, clean cracks. The girl’s elbow intercepted the hand aimed at her throat; a single palm caught Talos’s left jab. She took both impacts standing.

Negan’s eyes nearly left his head.

Forget technique — the raw difference in strength between a grown man and a girl should have decided everything. He had never in his life seen his brother blocked with one hand.

What followed happened in a compressed flicker. Multiple exchanges, Talos unable to land anything final. He separated, tore off his outer robe, and drew a dagger.

“Brother — together!”

The low growl had an edge of urgency Negan had never heard before.

He understood immediately. Talos had made a fighter’s assessment: this was not someone to take alone.

Negan drew his knife and dropped into position beside his brother. “Who are you?”

“Who I am isn’t important.” The girl spread her hands wide, seemingly content to remain unarmed. “What matters is that you two aren’t ordinary refugees — and so you need to explain why you lied.” She paused. “If you surrender now, perhaps you’ll suffer less. But murder is a serious crime. Under Graycastle law, once innocent blood is confirmed on your hands, there is no verdict but death — whatever reasons you give.”

Has she gone completely mad?

She spoke as though she were offering counsel, but every word backed them further into a corner. No one who was told they would certainly die sat quietly to be taken. She was forcing their hand — deliberately, clearly, without pretense.

There was nothing left to say.

When Talos thrust with the dagger and drove forward, Negan came from the side to close off her angles, cutting off her ability to dodge right or run.

She didn’t try to run.

She didn’t call for help either. She simply fought.

It was only when they were fully engaged that Negan understood how wrong his first impression had been. Every strike she threw landed with a weight he had to brace his whole body to absorb. Even the light, casual-looking blows required him to lock his grip on the dagger handle — a moment’s looseness and she would have sent it skittering across the dock.

Where did a frame like hers hold that much force?

“Stop holding back. She’s not armored!” Talos’s growl cut through his thoughts. He was right — they were both wearing armor. Whatever she hit them with, it could only hurt so much. Attrition favored them absolutely.

Negan threw his dagger at her as a feint and then lunged — arms wide, full commitment. A suicidal move in any clean fight. Against someone relying only on fists and feet, it was a trap: dodge it and she breaks her stance, leaves a gap for Talos; take it and he folds her arms in close.

Either way, she was finished.

What he felt was a detonation through his face.

His nose drove backward into his skull. His vision dissolved into white and then red, and the taste of rust flooded his throat.

That hurt.

But you’re finished.

He clenched through it, threw every remaining ounce into the fold. The distance was exactly right. She couldn’t escape a close grip — and if she gave up her guard trying to escape him, Talos would cut right through the opening.

Sure enough, her oversized dodge forced her whole body to drop low and left her exposed for just a beat.

Talos stepped in and swung a gray arc down at an angle toward her head.

She moved like a snake’s tongue — upward, barely. The blade missed.

And then, before either of them could exhale, the girl borrowed the momentum of her crouch and drove a pair of kicks outward.

Negan felt not a kick but a battering ram. He hit the side of the four-wheeled carriage so hard the metal frame rang. His armor absorbed some of it; the rest drove through into his body and forced a mouthful of blood up his throat.

He hit the ground and looked up.

The girl stood straight again. Hood gone now. Smooth hair. And a pair of fur-tipped ears that had no business being on a human face. The wounds he had expected to see on her — from Talos’s blade at least — were absent.

The strike had shaved nothing but the rim of her hood.

And those ears…

“Ahem—” Talos had one hand braced against his ribs as he rose. “You ugly… monster. I carry a God’s Stone of Retaliation. How are you… unaffected?”

“Because I haven’t used my abilities.” She touched the torn hood with something like regret. “As for calling me ugly — that’s simply poor taste. No one in Neverwinter would agree with you. I’ve even received compliments from the chief.”

“What rubbish!” Blood still in his mouth, Negan spat out the words. “My brother is a knight conferred by the Queen of Everwinter herself. Knights from the King’s City Knightage couldn’t beat him. You think you win because you’re a fighter? You win because you used demonic power! If the Church of Hermes still stood, you’d never dare show your face. The only reason freaks like you walk openly is because that damned king from Graycastle tore down everything right — you and your witches belong in Hell!”

“Is that so?” Something in her voice shifted, not louder, only quieter and more deliberate. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed yet — what has changed in your bodies.”

“What is your point?”

“The blood on your hands — was any of it from opponents as strong as you?”

Silence.

“No?” She looked between the two of them. “You’re technically proficient, but you lack something — the sharpness of men who have fought for their lives against real enemies and won.” She spoke evenly, without heat. “I have seen many like you. A knight reaches a certain height, wins a certain number of easy victories, and then he stops. Forward is terrifying. Backward is familiar. So he turns around and bullies the people beneath him to remind himself he is still strong. In time that habit soaks into the bone, into the muscle. Those victories keep coming, but none of them make him better. None of them make him more.”

She paused.

“I have fought Transcendents whose power makes despair feel reasonable. I have fought Ancient Witches who have spent centuries perfecting a single skill. That is the difference.” Another pause, shorter. “Perhaps you were once the best Everwinter had. But now—”

She looked at them without cruelty. Simply with recognition.

“You’re no longer worthy to be among the strong.”

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