I break the lock and slam the heel of my staff into his gut. He crumples.
Only Rian remains standing, staff ready, eyes narrowed. We circle. His strike is clean, cutting the air. I parry. He spins, counters—clips my hip, fast and clean.
Gods, he’s fast. But I’m faster.
Before he resets, I lunge—drive the end of my staff into his chest and knock him flat.
They all rise again—barely. Garrick’s lip is bleeding. Jarek’s got a welt blooming across his collarbone. Rian rolls his shoulder like it’s half out of socket. But they come.
We clash again—fierce, brutal, unrelenting. The kind of sparring that leaves marks. That proves something.
I disarm Garrick with a feint and a hook. He scrambles and gets a boot in the gut for his trouble. I sweep Jarek hard—he hits the stones with a grunt and doesn’t rise right away. Rian lasts the longest, as always. But I catch his staff, twist, and shove—hestumbles, and I press the end of mine to his chest.
“Dead,” I say.
He closes his eyes, breathless. “You bleedingbastard.”
I grin. “You’re welcome.”
The sun spills down like molten gold, turning the courtyard into something sacred. Steam rises from our skin. My breath burns in my chest. My ribs scream. But I’m still on my feet.
The others are scattered across the stone, cursing and laughing under their breath.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ask.
“Gods, no,” Garrick groans.
Jarek mutters, “I might actually be dead.”
Rian sits up slowly. “We almost had you.”
I wipe the blood from my cheek with the back of my wrist. “Almost.”
The crowd begins to scatter, murmurs fading into the hum of midday. A few soldiers linger, casting sidelong glances our way as they leave—some grinning, others wincing like they took the hits.
We move slowly, limbs aching, breathing still ragged.
I walk toward the water station, my quarterstaff resting across my shoulders, arms draped over it. Garrick limps a little. Jarek’s shirt is sticking to the bruise already blooming across his chest. Rian’s quiet, but I can see the tension in his jaw—he took the hardest hit at the end.
I grab a canteen from the stone basin and toss it to Rian without a word.
He catches it one-handed, unscrews the cap, and drinks deep. Then hands it to Garrick, who’s leaning against the post like it’s the only thing holding him upright.
Jarek grabs another canteen for himself and tips it straight back.
I let myself breathe. Just for a moment.
No prophecy. No politics. No girl behind a closed door with the fate of the world pressing on her shoulders.
Just this. My brothers bruised and beaten . . . but here.
I find my own and drain half of it in one go. The water is cold and sharp in my throat, grounding me more than anything else has since the match started.
Then I drop onto the nearest bench like my bones have turned to stone, the quarterstaff thudding against the side as it falls from my hand.
And just like that, it all catches up to me—bruises stinging sharp, ribs pulsing like war drums, muscles aching in places I forgot could ache. I rest my forearms on my knees and exhale, sweat cooling fast in the open air.
Rian sits beside me with a low grunt. Garrick flops to the ground at my feet. Jarek leans back against the bench behind us, still sipping water like he’s trying to calculate how many more sips it’ll take before he can stand straight.
