He could’ve ended it—blade to throat, duel over.
But he didn’t.
Instead, Shayde stepped back. Tossed his sword away. It landed on mine with a soft clatter. Then he raised his fists, waiting.
The crowd erupted at the sight of both blades in the mud.
I stared at him, chest burning, strands of wet hair plastered to my face. My hands curled and uncurled. My pride was bruised, but not broken. Not yet.
I tore off my leather jacket and flung it into the muck. My sleeveless tunic clung; rain and sweat slicked my bare arms. Cold air kissed my skin, but the boiling water in my veins kept me warm—itching for release.
We circled again. Slower. Measuring.
I struck first—a hard right. He blocked with his forearm. I followed with a jab to the ribs. Solid hit. No reaction.
Then he moved—fast. A clean right hook. I barely ducked. I pivoted, aiming for his jaw, but he caught my fist and spun, using his whole body to whip me off my feet.
I slammed into the mud. The shock knocked the breath from me. My lungs begged for air.
River barked from the crowd. I clutched at my throat, coughing, each inhale scraping like glass.
“Call it off, Fallon!” Scarlet’s voice cut sharp through the roar.
I forced my limbs to move, rolling onto my knees. Shayde stood where he was—ready, waiting—but still didn’t offer a hand. Slowly, I pushed to my feet, every muscle aching, mud clinging everywhere. My elements screamed beneath the surface, begging to be unleashed.
I clenched my fists and stepped toward him. “Bet it feels good,” I said, just loud enough for him alone, “taking your frustration out on someone who looks just like her.”
No flinch. No flicker.
We circled.
“If you wanted time with her replica that badly,” I went on, letting the venom drip, “you could’ve just said so. I would’ve obliged. Could’ve made it worth—”
Shayde’s fist ripped the wordsfrom my mouth.
Pain exploded across my cheek. My head snapped sideways, but I didn’t fall. Blood flooded my tongue; I spat into the mud.
“That was not nice,” I seethed.
“You don’t deserve nice,” he growled.
I lunged, throwing a right hook. He slipped aside, but I followed with a low sweep, knocking his legs out. Shayde crashed into the mud and I pounced, straddling him.
Before I could swing, he caught both my wrists, twisted, and rolled. The world flipped. Suddenly I was face-down, his arm a steel bar across the back of my neck. I inhaled mud.
He leaned down. “How’s it feel to be kicked while you’re down?” he snarled in my ear.
I thrashed—heels kicking, nails raking his forearm. Nothing loosened his grip. My vision tunneled. Stars burst behind my eyes. My pulse pounded, louder than the crowd.
Be what he won’t.
Or be what hecan’t.
I called to the earth.
Vines ripped through the mud, slick and snarling, coiling around his limbs and throat, yanking him off me. I rose, clawing for air as Shayde was dragged back. A jagged laugh tore from my throat—half relief, half madness—until Doryan’s voice cracked like a whip.
“No elements! That’s it, Fitz. You’re disqualified. Wylder wins!”
