By request, I have continued immediately where we left off last week. If you haven’t read last week’s Six Sentence Sunday post, you can read it here.

Astarl stared, paralysed, while he held out his cloak. She’d heard of the Machaera, of his black reputation.
A knife sat sheathed on his belt. Her fingers brushed its hilt and the next she knew his arm was around her neck, the blade at her throat. She hung limp in his grasp, struggling to make sense of what just happened.
He was fast, though not as fast as she; rather, anticipating her move, he left himself recklessly, dangerously open to counter her.
You can find more Six Sentence Sunday writers here.

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