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A wordless cry. I am flying at him. All of my shock and rage a thin tunnel, unable to even process what I am doing as I am doing it. I hit him across the face, and he smiles at my pain as my fist near shatters in its meeting the immovable object. I try to force him backward over the edge, forgetting that it will take far more than twenty or so feet to kill him. He doesn’t budge. My throbbing hand around his throat. He doesn’t even blink. Then he gestures. Disdainful. The backhand slams me ten feet into the far wall, raining rubble down on my head. My self-imbuing the only difference between pain and death. I stagger to my feet and run and swing again through the tears in my eyes, but he moves as if I’m a child, avoiding the blow and then gripping my shoulder. He holds me up, feet dangling, so that my face is level with his. Soulless eyes examining mine. The Strength of the Few Chapter 72
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