The white-gold spear halted a hair's breadth from Hajin's collarbone, its blade wreathed in a ring of dawn light. Forty paces of open plaza were gone in a blink, rays of light still drifting where she crossed them.
"A Shard-less thief in a baron's cloak," the woman said, her voice clear and cold as struck glass.
Thousands of voices went quiet at once, the distant roar of the Colosseum sounding thin and far away. The woman holding the spear stood straight as a blade, her dawn-bright hair braided tight behind her head.
"Order is mercy, thief, I am here to show it to you."
The halo around the spearhead spun once, shearing Hajin's glove from his hand in two perfectly neat, silent halves. Not a thread of his skin was touched, though the gold thumbprint now lay bare to the morning sun.
Hajin curled his fingers into a fist before anyone could look at his palm.
"That was my good glove," he said mildly, "I only wore it twice."
