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Not enough to kill him.

Enough to end the fight.

That distinction registered.

I hated that it did.

The first male pushed himself up, one hand braced against the floor. Veyr’s pivot was a single fluid motion—not a step, but a redirection of weight. His open hand struck the hollow beneath the male’s shoulder blade. A choked gasp, then the attacker folded back to the ground like a cut wire.

Darev’s voice came from behind the counter, low and sharp. “These aren’t soldiers.”

Veyr didn’t turn. “No.”

The word stuck in my mind, cold and certain. Not soldiers. Then what?

The side access hissed open. A third male stood there, a serrated blade already in hand, dark blue ŭre simmering like deep water under his skin. He moved without hesitation—three quick strides into the room. The blade came around in a tight arc.

Veyr shifted his weight, but the edge caught him. Not a deep cut—a sharp line opened high on his ribs. Dark blood welled immediately, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

I stopped breathing.

Veyr went perfectly still. Not tense, not coiled—just still. The silver-white lines of his ŭre didn’t flare; they brightened into something hard and carved, like veins of quartz lit from within.

The attacker saw it. His advance faltered. His grip on the knife tightened—not readiness, but doubt.

Veyr’s hand closed around the attacker’s forearm. A sharp, ozone-scented crackle filled the air as silver-white current arced from Veyr’s skin into the male’s. The dark blue ŭre beneath the attacker’s axŭ flickered wildly, then seized—a frantic, broken stutter of light. The serrated blade clattered against the floor.

Veyr forced him down. One palm pressed flat between his shoulder blades, the other cupped the base of his skull, thumb resting just below the cranial. No strain showed in Veyr’s posture. No tremble. The male knelt like a marionette with its strings cut, muscles twitching under Veyr’s hold.

The attacker’s breath hitched. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, fixed on nothing. A thin sheen of sweat glossed his temples.

Veyr leaned in until his mouth was near the male’s ear. “Who sent you?”

Silence.

Veyr’s ŭre brightened—not a flare, but a focused intensification. The male gasped as his own ŭre pulsed erratically, like a faulty wire. A muscle in his jaw jumped uncontrollably.

“Veyr.”

My voice was barely a whisper.

He turned his head. His eyes met mine—clear, focused, utterly calm. No anger tightened his mouth; no pleasure lit his gaze. He looked like a man measuring ingredients.

I swallowed. “Don’t kill him.”

He held my stare for one full second. Then the current faded from his skin. He released his grip.

The attacker slumped forward onto the tiles, trembling but awake. I took a ragged breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Darev took a step toward the clinic entrance. Veyr’s hand shot out, palm flat against his chest, halting him mid-stride. “Wait.”

A fresh shot tore through the doorframe, splintering the composite material inches from where Darev had been about to step. He cursed, stumbling back into the room.

“There are more?” My voice sounded thin.

“Two.” Veyr didn’t look at me. His attention was fixed on the wall.

“How do you know?”