Willam nods, already circling to my right. “Agreed. Though I doubt your pets will honor that when you’re bleeding at my feet.”
I don’t bother responding to the taunt. Instead, I center myself, drawing on years of combat training. Assess the opponent. Identify weaknesses. Exploit openings.
Willam is only slightly shorter than me, but with the lean build of someone who exercises for appearance rather than function. His stance is textbook perfect—royal guard training, as he claimed—but there’s a stiffness to his movements that speaks of theory without practical application. He’s never had to adapt to an unpredictable opponent, never had to improvise when the standard forms fail.
He strikes first, a quick jab that I sidestep easily. Testing my reflexes, my training. I let him land the second blow, a glancing hit to my shoulder that tells me exactly what I need to know about his strength and speed. Considerable, but not exceptional. Not enough to end this quickly.
“First blood to me,” he says, confidence growing. “Shall I let you land one for the sake of your pride?”
I smile, the expression calculated to unnerve rather than reassure. “I don’t need your charity, brother.”
The acknowledgement of our relationship throws him off balance for just a moment—a flicker of surprise that createsthe opening I need. I step inside his guard, faster than he anticipated, and drive my fist into his solar plexus with enough force to expel the air from his lungs in a violent rush.
Willam staggers back, gasping, genuine shock replacing his earlier confidence. He wasn’t expecting that—not the speed, not the precision, and certainly not the controlled violence behind the blow. He’s used to sparring partners who pull their punches, who respect his royal status even in combat training.
I have no such restraints.
“That was for the ambush,” I say conversationally, circling him now. “Would you like to reconsider your strategy?”
Anger flashes in his golden eyes—the same anger I’ve seen in my father’s gaze, in my own reflection. The Corellian temper, legendary for its sudden violence. Willam charges, abandoning technique for brute force, exactly as I anticipated.
I sidestep again, but this time I grab his extended arm, using his own momentum to send him crashing to the ground. The impact drives the remaining air from his lungs, leaving him momentarily stunned.
“And that,” I continue, “was for threatening my pack.”
Around us, Willam’s men shift uneasily, hands tightening on their weapons. They’re uncertain now, watching their commander outmatched in a contest he initiated. Ares and Poe remain perfectly still, trusting me to handle this but ready to move the instant the situation changes.
Willam rolls to his feet with surprising agility, spitting blood from a split lip. The sight of his own blood seems to shock him more than the pain. “You’ll pay for that,” he snarls, all pretense of aristocratic composure abandoned.
“I’m already paying,” I reply, gesturing to the cut above my eye, still bleeding freely. “The question is whether you’re willing to pay the full price of this encounter.”
He charges again, but this time there’s calculation behind the anger. He feints left, then strikes right, a combination that might have worked on a less experienced opponent. I block the first blow, absorb the second against my forearm, and counter with a strike to his kidney that makes him gasp in genuine pain.
“You fight like a common soldier,” he spits, the words half accusation, half disbelief.
“I fight to win,” I correct him. “Something they apparently didn’t teach you in those fifteen years of training.”
The taunt lands as intended, pushing him further into anger, further from rational thought. Willam has always been predictable that way—quick to rage, slow to recover. It’s why Father never trusted him with any real responsibility, why he remains a footnote in the royal hierarchy despite being a legitimate son.
He attacks again, a flurry of blows that I partially block, partially absorb. One catches me in the ribs—the same ribs likely cracked in the crash—and pain flares hot and immediate. I use it, channeling the sensation into focused aggression as I counter with a strike to his throat.
Not hard enough to crush his windpipe, but enough to send him staggering back, choking and gasping. A killing blow pulled at the last moment—a reminder that I could end this any time I choose.
“Yield,” I say, giving him one final chance. “This doesn’t have to end with one of us dead.”
Willam’s response is to draw a knife from his boot—a slender blade, easily concealed, deadly in the right hands. “I think it does,” he rasps, his voice rough from the blow to his throat.
So much for honor. So much for the rules of engagement. But then, I never really expected him to fight fair. None of my brothers ever have.
“Sir,” one of his men protests again, “this isn’t?—“
“Shut up,” Willam snaps, never taking his eyes off me. “He’s mine.”
I shift my stance, adapting to the new threat. A knife changes the dynamics, limits my options. I need to keep distance, avoid letting him close enough to use the blade effectively. But I also need to end this quickly, before his men decide to intervene regardless of his orders.
Willam lunges, the knife a silver blur in the afternoon light. I pivot, letting the blade pass within inches of my abdomen, and grab his wrist with both hands. Using his own momentum against him once more, I twist his arm behind his back, forcing him to either drop the knife or dislocate his shoulder.
He chooses a third option—driving his head back into my face with enough force to break my nose. Pain explodes across my vision, hot blood pouring down my chin, but I maintain my grip on his wrist. The knife clatters to the ground as his fingers finally release it.
