It hung back, massive torso heaving, uncertain primitives parsing what had just culled its kin. Rodion rose slowly, sword tips grazing stone. He activated the cloak's vent channels; a cool draft fluttered the hem. To the beast it must have looked like its opponent grew suddenly, cloak flaring like dark wings. The Maw bellowed—a guttural sound that rattled the very roots overhead—and charged.
Rodion sprinted straight toward it. Distance collapsed. At the last heartbeat he feinted left, then right, too quick for the Maw's limited ocular field. It overcorrected, plates screeching. In that half-second of imbalance Rodion dived under its gullet, rolled beneath the armored belly, and slashed in a single, ruthless arc at the softer skin near its rear tendons. The cut wasn't deep, but deep enough. Muscle severed, the Maw's rear leg buckled. Momentum hurled its own mass forward; it face-planted, tusks burying into the stone floor with a hideous crunch.
