That was the only way to describe it. She didn't block. She didn't counter each strike individually.
She simply moved in a way that made each of Cedric's attacks arrive somewhere she wasn't, her footwork minimal and entirely purposeful, her blade held at an angle that suggested readiness without committing to direction.
She was fighting crazily. With amazing skills.
It was fluid in a way that didn't look practiced which meant it had been practiced so much it had stopped looking that way.
Azael's brows rose slightly.
Cedric pressed harder. The exchanges picked up in pace — he was good enough to recognize what was happening and respond by increasing the pressure, giving less time between strikes, shortening the windows she was using to neutralize him.
It helped, partially.
