Lysander spins just in time, avoiding the blade, and strikes Cornelius between the shoulders with the handle. The force propels him forward and onto his knees. He grunts, his massive size swaying, but before he can regain himself again, Lysander presses the tip of his sword to the back of his neck, his eyes glowing menacingly.
Everyone holds their breath.
Is he going to do it? Kill him?
Moving closer, Lysander runs the blade’s tip over Cornelius’s shoulder blade and down his one arm. Toying with him. A twisted grin forms on his face. There are not many ways to kill our kind, whatever we are. But removing a person’s head from their neck is one of the sure ones.
The tension rising, I step further into the circle. “Lysander…” I warn, anxiety gripping me. “Don’t…”
It isn’t uncommon for blood to be spilled in these duels, but death? That would call for some kind of punishment, I’m sure. Henri doesn’t like rule-breaking or disorder.
There’s something about Lysander’s rigid stance and the way the silvery moonlight reflects off his skin that makes him appear ghostly. He raises his sword above his head with both hands and grins, exposing his fangs.
With an angry roar, he swings it.
“No!” I shout, my heart dropping.
But to my surprise, Lysander’s sword doesn’t impale Cornelius. It’s embedded in the ground, only inches away from him. An obvious warning.
My heart bangs in my chest, but I draw in a deep breath to try and calm it.
Thank god he didn’t go through with it. But then, why is the sharp tang of blood dampening the air and filling my nose? Where is it coming from?
That’s when I see it. A single drop of blood sliding down the mound of muscle on Cornelius’s arm.
Not the dramatic death Lysander had everyone expecting, but it’s enough to claim him the victor in this fight. First blood.
I expel all my held breath, relief washing over me instantly.
The crowd erupts with cheers and laughter. Shoulders easing, Lysander’s eyes return to his natural calm, gray color, and he tilts his chin high as he strides over to me, gaining many congratulatory slaps and praises along the way.
“That was quite a performance,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice from wavering with nerves.
“Merci.” Lysander takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabs the few beads of perspiration on his upper lip.
“You had us all nervous for a moment.”
He glances over his shoulder to where Cornelius still kneels. “Well, someone had to quiet him.”
I laugh, patting him on the back.
Waving the cloth at the crowd, he addresses them instead, “Now, who’s up next?”
No one moves. Fear and hesitation wash over every face.
“You’ve given yourself quite a reputation,” I say.
“After decades of professional training while in France, and a few wars, I expect it.” He begins to stride back toward the manor, and the men separate from him to walk. Before getting too far, he pauses and glances over his shoulder again. “Oh, and someone tell Cornelius when he’s swallowed enough of his pride that he must see to his end of the bet.”
I hurry to his side. “You bet him?”
He nods. “He must take over my guard duty for a month.”
Worry stirs. Being a part of Lord Henri’s guard is considered a noble position. The lord only chooses the best to protect him, and Cornelius may be large in size, but he isn’t a skilled fighter—as Lysander proved tonight. Lord Henri might even take this as an insult.
“Lord Henri will not approve.” I shake my head. “I don’t think it wise?”
“I’m sure Henri won’t approve,” he interrupts, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket, “but this is why you never make a bet you aren’t willing to keep. Dear Cornelius can handle those consequences.”
