Thorne's sword came around for a final strike—aimed at Kelvin's head, close range, lethal intent.
The blade swept through the air in a killing arc, holy-blessed steel catching the light, moving with fatal precision toward the goblin commander's skull.
Kelvin saw death coming.
His wounded shoulder prevented him from blocking effectively. His knife was buried in Thorne's side, both hands occupied holding the weapon in place. He had no defense.
The sword descended.
And the ground beneath Kelvin's feet—already churned to mud from yesterday's rain and today's combat—gave way.
His boots slipped.
Not a tactical maneuver. Not a planned dodge. Pure accident—the mud was slick with blood and rain-water, and Kelvin's desperate grappling position had him off-balance.
He fell backward, his grip on the knife involuntarily jerking the blade as he dropped.
Thorne's sword missed by inches, the blade whistling through the space where Kelvin's head had been a heartbeat earlier.
