Marcus spun around on his heel.
His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Elowen stood in the doorway.
Her smile was wide and twisted. It was a look of pure, unadulterated malice.
She held a whip in her right hand. It was made of braided leather and tipped with silver barbs.
She pulled her arm back. The muscles in her shoulder tensed and she swung.
It was a horizontal strike. It was aimed directly at Marcus's face.
The movement was a blur of motion.
Marcus saw death coming.
He had no weapon. He had no time to dodge.
His instincts screamed at him.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He threw both arms up in front of his face.
It was a futile gesture. A reflex of a desperate man.
He waited for the silver barbs to tear into his flesh.
He waited for the pain.
The air hissed as the whip sliced through it.
Thwack.
The sound was loud and sharp.
It sounded like leather hitting solid stone.
Marcus flinched. But there was no pain.
