He offered me a hand, and I grasped it, letting him haul me into the ring with an ease that made my heart stumble. This was not going to be an easy fight.
Up close, the torchlight illuminated countless tiny scars flecking his pale skin from years of training, including those along his biceps and forearms, layered in even, clean lines. Like Razel’s.
He followed my gaze. “I don’t practice.” His voice was cool. “Not since it became my choice.”
Frost prickled my skin. Razel had forced him. Had soldiers held him down while his mother sliced his skin, offering his blood to her brutal god in exchange for his favor?
“She seemed to think she was saving my soul.” The emptiness in Ericen’s tone only made me feel sicker. He turned his arm to hide the scars, clenching his fist. The muscles in his arm flexed as he said, “It felt more like I was losing it.” He snorted derisively. “Oh well. What’s another disappointment in a sea of failures?”
“I wouldn’t call that a failure,” I replied.
His silver-blue gaze lifted to meet mine, and the intensity behind it pinned me.
“It’s difficult to walk against the wind.” Another Trendellan proverb from Caliza’s husband. “It takes strength.”
“Funny, my mother called it weakness. I don’t suppose you’d consider having this talk with her?” Despite his flippancy, some of the tightness ebbed from his face.
I gave him a flat look, and he chuckled as he approached a corner of the ring where a sheath hung on the post. He slid the sword in, then returned to face me in the center of the ring.
“First one to concede loses?” he asked.
“I don’t concede.”
He grinned. “So I’m learning.”
I shifted my stance, and he did the same. “On one,” he said. “Three, two, one.”
Ericen shot forward, releasing a volley of strikes. I dodged with room to spare, then slipped around him and backed toward the other side of the ring. Those had been test shots; he was feeling me out.
He came at me again, faster this time, his movements stronger and quicker. I dodged and blocked, turned and swirled, and with each blow of his that missed or I knocked askew, his expression grew tighter, and I nearly grinned. He couldn’t hit me.
The problem was my strength had always been in my speed and reflexes. I could avoid an opponent all day, but I hesitated to end a fight. Estrel always told me to tire them out, but two weeks of training wasn’t enough to compete with the stamina of a fully trained Vykryn.
Ericen had clearly realized the same thing, as he seemed content to continue until I couldn’t any longer. Already, my breathing started to labor, my movements to lag. He nearly clipped me twice in a row.
Then, in what I mistook for another punch, he tackled me to the ground.
The ring floor gave only slightly, compressing just enough to spare my back, the air gushing out of my lungs in a loud gasp. Ericen was easily twice my size, his heavy body pinning me with little effort. My chest heaved. He felt like a miniature sun, his skin burning with expended energy and slick with sweat.
He grinned, then clearly thinking he’d settled the matter, peeled his hand off my arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. I punched him in the jaw.
His head whipped to the side, but his body remained planted over mine. My knuckles sang, but all I cared about was the red mark they’d left on his face. He blinked, and then he smiled. A real smile, not the stupid one-sided smirk or the grin that made me want to gut him.
“You’re better than I gave you credit for,” he said.
I’d just about regained my breath enough to talk. “You’re not.”
He laughed, the sound strangely rich and menacing at the same time, and rose, offering me a hand. I let him lift me to my feet, my back protesting.
“You need to work on your counterstrikes,” he said. “You fight like a poorly trained Jin.”
“You fight like a brick wall,” I growled back, fully aware that didn’t make much sense. But it was the only way I could describe his curt, solid movements and sturdy stance.
He laughed again, and I simmered, hating that he was right. The Jin fighting style used an opponent’s weight and movements against them, making them skilled dodgers, like me. But they also knew how to end a fight.
I sought the connection with Res, knowing it would calm me. It flooded into my veins in a quiet rush, stronger than it had been yesterday from this far away.
“Next time,” I said, “I’m bringing my bow, and we’re doing this with weapons.”
