She drew her slingsword and slashed down. A spike fell in a spray of sand. Another whistled by her ear. Elena ducked and weaved through the attack, her movements smooth and practiced, her feet light, the slingsword hilt like an extension of her hand. Sweat trickled down her face, but she did not mind.
She fell into a trance, into the primal physicality of her body.
Lunge.
Duck.
Spin.
Advance.
Her body moved of its own accord, and for one splendid moment, Elena felt attuned to something higher. Forget the gold caps and her father. Here was something she was good at. Here was something she could control.
Elena ran toward the wall, but before she could reach it, the sand collapsed. She coughed as dirt and dust clotted the air. The ground rumbled, the sand shifting as a low hiss crept across the field. Elena held her slingsword in front of her, slowly turning to sense the next direction of attack.
It came from below.
The sand grabbed her feet, sucked her down into a rippling pool of quicksand. Elena grunted, trying to twist out of its grasp, but she only sank deeper.
“The more you struggle, the faster you’ll sink.”
Her head snapped up. There, standing in the glass box, was Yassen.
“What are you doing here?” she growled.
“Relax your legs and shoot out your blade. You can pull yourself out that way.”
She glanced at her sword and then up at the blue lights. The sand gurgled, swallowing her to her waist.
Cursing, Elena raised her sword and pulled the trigger. The blade shot out and embedded into the ceiling. She tugged, but it held. With a grunt, she pulled herself up, climbing the steel rope that connected the projectile blade to the hilt. The sand hissed, squeezing her legs, but Elena put one hand over the other, her muscles screaming as she pulled herself out. As soon as she escaped, the blue lights flashed, and the sand froze.
The round was over.
She sighed and let go. She landed on her feet, but a second later, her knees buckled, and she fell. Elena groaned and rolled onto her back. As she blinked up, a shadow fell over her. Frowning, she craned her neck. Yassen stared down at her, a rare smile playing across his face.
“You’ve never dealt with quicksand?”
“Oh, shut it.”
She pushed herself into a sitting position. When Yassen offered his hand, she noticed the slingsword tucked into his belt.
“Did you have to use that on your hunt?”
“No,” he said, hauling her up. “Pulse guns are much faster.”
“Only when you don’t know how to use a slingsword properly,” she said.
“Oh?” Yassen looked down at his hip. He wore no gamesuit, but after a moment’s debate, he drew his slingsword, the blade glinting in the blue light. “Show me.”
Elena paused. Her legs felt like lead and her arms weak as Cyleon balsa. But she saw the look in Yassen’s eyes, the determination and the curiosity, and she thought back to their first duel. How he had held back. How he had taken her blows without protest.
“All right,” she said. “But use the Unsung this time.”
They crouched at opposite ends of the field. The gamemaster had only programmed one round, so the sand was still, the arena quiet. Elena met Yassen’s gaze. He nodded.
They both charged forward. With a snarl, Elena raised her slingsword for an overhead strike. Yassen brought up his weapon, and their blades clashed with a screech. Without missing a beat, Elena stepped back and lifted her slingsword. Yassen cut up for a parry, falling for the feint. Grinning, she sidestepped and wheeled down, the tip of her blade nicking Yassen’s shin. He yelped and hopped back.
Elena lunged, using her momentum to knee him in the liver. Yassen stumbled but quickly regained his footing, spinning out of her reach. He swept aside her advance and parried the next.
