Marlowe
Vance fought with the particular brutal efficiency of a man who'd survived considerably longer than his enemies usually did, and I understood within the first several exchanges that raw skill alone wasn't going to be enough to beat him.
So I didn't rely on raw skill alone. I fell back on everything King had taught me — read the ground, read the weight, wait for the opening instead of forcing one — and held my own longer than Vance's cold, satisfied expression suggested he'd expected from me.
"Not bad," he said, breathing harder now, some of his earlier confidence visibly cracking. "Silas trained you well, for a man who's been dead twelve years."
"He didn't train me at all. I never even got the chance to know him properly." I circled, watching for an opening, fury and grief both
