I approach the rack warily, scanning the array of blades, staves, and more exotic weapons. Most are unfamiliar to me—designedspecifically for dragon combat, I assume. I recognize only a few from the selection Selen showed us.
I choose a short spear with a barbed tip, running my hand along the haft, testing its weight. The wood is cold, the iron cruel.
“Are you certain of that choice?” Zeriel asks as I return, one dark brow arching in faint challenge. He spins a pair of curved blades with effortless grace, the arcs they carve through the air gleaming like silver sigils. Every movement promises death. “Most recruits cling to what they know.”
“Nothing here is familiar,” I manage, forcing steadiness into my voice. “Might as well learn something new.”
A shadow of a smile cuts across his mouth, quick and sharp, but his eyes remain merciless. “Very well… Let us begin.”
I barely have time to set my spear before he strikes. His blades whistle through the air with unnerving precision, singing as they meet the shaft in my grip. The clash rattles through my bones, the impact violent enough to send me stumbling, sand spilling beneath my boots.
“Too slow.” He circles me like a predator toying with prey, eyes fixed and unrelenting. “A dragon would have already taken your head.”
I adjust my grip, trying to recall the fragments of instruction Selen drilled into us about dragon-killing techniques. The spear needs to be angled to penetrate between scales, aimed at vulnerable points?—
But Zeriel doesn’t give me time to think. He strikes again, a blur of motion too fast for my eyes to follow. I manage to parry one blade, but the second halts just shy of my throat.
“Dead,” he murmurs. His breath ghosts hot across my cheek, though his gaze is ice, piercing straight through me.
My throat tightens around the breath I can’t quite draw. Even when he steps back, the chill of his stare clings like frost. I force myself upright, spine locked against the tremor in my legs, as he allows me the smallest pause to gather myself.
Around us, the pit is alive with chaos. Veterans toy withrecruits the way cats toy with mice. Nyx holds her own longer than most—her tavern-brawler instincts enough to deflect blows—but even she’s dismantled in moments by her opponent’s ruthless precision. The bald woman lies already motionless in the sand… blood spreading dark beneath her skull.
“Again,” Zeriel commands, low and cutting. The steel in his tone drags my eyes to his, a compulsion I can’t resist. His gaze pins me as surely as a blade through flesh—cold, relentless, inescapable.
I steady my breathing, forcing ragged gasps into rhythm. Survival takes over. I stop watching his weapons and start reading the man. The subtle coil of muscle, the shift of his weight, the tilt of his shoulders before he moves.
When he lunges, I pivot aside, letting his first blade carve only air where I stood a heartbeat ago. The second arcs low, hungry for my abdomen. I catch it on the shaft of my spear and thrust toward his chest. He deflects effortlessly, but something shifts in his face—a flicker, brief as lightning, of reassessment.
“You’ve fought before,” he observes, circling me with the patience of a wolf. There’s the faintest crack in his impassive mask, a ghost of surprise. “Not trained, but blooded.”
“Street survival,” I answer, breath harsh between words. “Different kind of education.”
A crash from across the pit snaps my attention. Fatal mistake. Zeriel’s leg sweeps mine out in an instant. I hit the sand hard, lungs emptied, dust stinging my throat. His blade is at my neck again before I can draw air.
“Distraction equals death,” he breathes, his weight pressing me into the sand. “Your street education won’t save you here.”
Chapter 9
Zeriel’s blade kisses my skin, just deep enough to draw a bead of blood before he pulls back.
“Again,” he says. “Get up.” He spits in the sand, bored, as though this is all beneath him.
I press a hand to my neck and shove myself upright. He could’ve opened my throat. Should have. But he didn’t. He stopped deliberately. Like he’s savoring my unraveling one strand at a time.
My muscles ache from the repeated falls, each bruise blooming hotter than the last. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring the sand, but I blink it away, refusing to show weakness. I won’t give him that satisfaction. I’ve never given a bully satisfaction.
I adjust my stance, knuckles white on the spear haft. This time when he advances, I thrust for his shoulder: a feint. He deflects with insulting ease, but I’m already spinning, sweeping low for his legs.
He springs back, quick as a striking cat, and something like approval, brief as lightning, flickers across his features, before the mask returns.
“Better. But still predictable.”
“Like you?” I circle him warily, spear leveled. “All that scarred flesh must slow you down.”
His eyes narrow, dark and dangerous. “Careful, recruit. Your tongue makes promises your body won’t survive.”
“Does it?” I lunge forward, two quick jabs testing his defenses. He parries both with liquid precision, but I’m not trying to land a hit—I’m listening to the rhythm beneath his strikes, the cadence of his guard.
