In desperation, Domhnall rushed at her. He attacked with wide and strong swipes that she struggled, but managed, to block. And when he waited for a beat too long, she struck back.
Positioning herself just right, she faked an attack on his left. He saw through it, but when he went to block, she turned her blade and reached out to grab his arm, twisting it. His sword dropped to where she was able to kick it behind her, out of his reach.
His green eyes widened with panic. She was tempted to reach behind her and grab his sword, finishing with the two blades, but some mercy was necessary.
Before victory could be declared, a punch knocked the air from her chest. Her lungs clawed for breath as her legs wavered beneath her. She wanted to collapse to the ground. She stumbled back, and Domhnall pressed forward.
She wouldn’t lose. Shecouldn’t. She had to push through the burning in her chest. His next blow was meant for her face, but she raised her forearm to block it.
No one had ever mentioned how much blocking a punchhurt.
She continued to back away as sharp pain radiated down her arm. The fierce look on Domhnall’s face made it clear he wasn’t underestimating her now, which meant she needed to move to her backup plan.
Lifting her blade, she swung widely at his head. He ducked, just as she hoped. She spun with her sword, and dug into the ground with the point, spraying dirt into Domhnall’s face.
“What the—” He wiped his face, eyes red and bleary when he turned to look at her.
The next punch he threw was clumsy, making it all too easy for her to dodge it and grab his wrist. He was bigger than her, and stronger, but she used his momentum against him. Swiftly twisting his arm, she pinned it against his back. Her sword came to his neck.
“Do you yield?” she coughed out. She kept the pressure firm on his neck as pain seemed to course through every part of her body.
Domhnall’s body was rigid, a vein popping out from his neck as he looked for a way out. She tightened her grip on his arm.
“I asked you politely.” Her voice was steadier this time.
“I yield.” He slumped in defeat as she lowered her blade.
Kordislaen met them as they walked back to the stands. His face was dour as ever, but his words were not as cold. “Well done, Fionnáin. You exceeded expectations.”
Even in her pain-addled state, joy coursed through her veins. “I aim to please.” Her smile was weak, but earned.
She took her seat beside Ronan, letting her head fall on his shoulder as Kordislaen called up another victim. Adrenaline was replaced by the heavy embrace of exhaustion, making it harder to fight how she craved his closeness. His arm moved behind her back, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. It felt right, sitting there with him.
“Did you see what I did?”
“I did,” he said, looking down at her with pride and something else lingering in his eyes.
“You better kick ass today. I don’t want to be that much better than you.”
His laugh caused a flutter in her chest. “I’ll do the best I can, but don’t expect me to compare to your performance.”
She smiled through her fatigue.
Ronan was called up to fight after almost everyone else had gone. The stands were full of bruised and beaten warriors—no one was allowed to leave after their fight unless immediate medical attention was required (which one dalta needed after fighting with Niamh). Everyone had free rein to choose who they wanted to fight, even if the person had already fought—but there seemed to be an unspoken rule to not choose someone who had already gone. For once, Clía was grateful for unspoken rules. If she was chosen to fight again, she might collapse.
Watching Ronan fight was different from training with him. He was a sight to behold, moving with a fluid grace and attacking with swift, deft strikes. He was wind dancing between blades of grass, easily avoiding every strike of his opponent’s sword, andonce she made one wrong step, Ronan ended the match. The other dalta didn’t stand a chance. Clía was almost sad his fight was over so soon; he was enthralling. She could understand why people thought he was gods-blessed.
Ronan had his sword to his opponent’s throat in under three minutes, a record for the day. Even Niamh took longer—although that was mostly due to the brutal beating she gave her opponent. That girl was forged from blades and fire.
At the end, Kordislaen dismissed them, and they returned to their rooms as walking bruises and rasping breaths. He gave them very little indication as to how well they’d done. They could only hope it was enough to secure their position at Caisleán.
Chapter Twenty-One
The week drew to a close, and for the first day in months, Clía was allowed to sleep in.
Despite the luxury, Clía couldn’t rest well. Images of their journey through the Ghostwood were haunting her. The Sluagh descending from the black sky. The bean sídhe’s empty eyes staring into hers. The green fabric stained dark.
Being awake held no reprieve. Instead, she was faced with another fear. Training was called off for the day, and Kordislaen was planning on addressing them after breakfast. He would be sending daltas home.
