Every master warns their students to never spar alone. The thought crosses my mind as I glance about.
‘Khamilla, this will not end well. Leave.’ No-Name’s voice edges to panic.
Quiet the mind. Think of the Qabl monks; a bone-shard to meditate upon.
Other warriors take note of us. Katayoun is at the steps of the Great Library with Aina and Dil-e-Jannah. She spots me with Cemil and frowns, hurrying toward us. Others follow – more and more crawling from the outskirts.
On the sparring circle, Cemil and I bow, clawed palms parallel to our chins. I bid away the material world. Our surroundings dim, everything fades, and bonds buckle beneath my soul, tightening as Heavenly Energy circulates inside me. My khanjar blade twists around my finger and I crouch, curled into first stance.
Cemil follows, yet his first stance is a coil of lithe muscles, and his eyes hold a warrior’s measured surety. For a second, I meditate into the spiritual realm, gazing at his bond expansion before regretting it.
The width of his Heavenly bonds imposes on the psychospiritual world, not thin strings, but a golden substance malleable to Cemil’s every whim like melted glass masonry.
I return to my mortal body, my grip on my khanjar tightening.
One blink and Cemil is in front of me; the next my ears are ringing, the air a whoosh of sand like a flourishing storm, pealing grit from his sheer speed. He launches straight and high, his shadow swallowing my form, then he slashes low –withouthis affinity.
In the nick of time, my wrists cross, my nur-engulfed blade clanging against his knife in a splay of sparks. I barrel forward in a low feint before my arm arcs upwards to his head in a crooked slash.
‘Pathetic,’ Cemil sneers, his head sweeping the ground, planting both feet against my chest. Like a leaf tumbling in the wind, I fly to the otherside of the circle, smacking on to the hard clay, my lip bursting with blood.
‘This is your strength? This is the one who stole from me,’ he says in disbelief. With no chance to rest, I roll right, his khanjar stabbing by my ear, shaving skin, and I gasp at the anger behind it. What have I done?
‘Stole what?’ I snap.
‘My Duxzam,’ he grits out.‘It was mine.’I’d sensed the hunger from him on my first day – his ambitions in classes, our trifecta, the Marka.
Warriors collect on the sand dunes around us like swarming bees. Cemil’s eyes dance in mirth as he lunges.
My mind fleets to Yabghu, reminding me of positions, slashes and combinations. In a split moment, I drink in his stance positioning.I will not be backed into a corner.
Spitting blood into his eyes, I curve my elbow around his ribs and jam into his back, collapsing his spine, my legs twining around him in a mount until I am above. His back arches, his ankles locking around my calves to squeeze my lower body. My injured shin strains.
I have this. I must only—
His hand darts out, snatching my jaw in a clamp. With a curse, I try to move, but the iron-bone behind it presses harder until I fear my jaw will shatter.
‘A lovely face to carve into my personal relief. See how your arrogance costs you,’ he hisses before his hand twists, using his grip of my neck to flip us with a resoundingsmack. My vision streaks white and my neck muscles tear.
He could kill me. He almost snapped my neck. This is not a spar.
I assumed we had an alliance of sorts, our animosity trickling away. But this hate is matched to the rage boiling inside of me. Had it been there the entire time?
Swiftly my foot’s bonds tighten into the sand, and I scramble up. Barely in time for my knife to parry and slash his.
‘You’ve gone mad,’ I spit out, ducking from a strike. ‘You almost killed me!’
‘How rich. But that is Azadnians, they invade and steal our lands, heretics of no honour. I warned our overseer that he brought a poison to this city,’ he says roughly, swiping forward. My arm raises. It’s no use, less than a deadlock when every block of mine is a second too late.
My back hits a fortress of flesh from the circle of bloodthirsty warriors, my khanjar grinding against his blade’s edge. I hear the First-Slashes yelling at Cemil to halt this, but the others’ roars drown out their cries. Of course he fights. Cemil is only content when I fall below, but the moment I am on top, he cannot bear it.
‘Concede,’ Cemil barks.
I push forward. ‘I would rather fight than fall as a coward.’
Smoothly, his wrists twist down before spinning and driving to my right. The changes in direction are unpredictable, no longer linear. His elbow crunches into my nose.
‘What else would I expect from an Azadnian?’ His knife cuts across my cheeks.
