“But you didn’t.”
Viktor’s stare burned beneath a brow knit tight. He forced the sword down, breath ragged.
Without a word, Storne turned back to the cart and drew another weapon—a slimmer blade.
“Amerei.”
No.
Viktor’s gut twisted at her name.
Storne only waved her forward.
“I put a sword in her hand when she was still a child,” he said. “She can wield it well enough. But she is not like the men you spar.”
Light flashed along the blade’s fine edge.
“Her strike will be the one you fail to read.”
Amerei stepped down into the pool, boots splashing through the shallows. She took the sword from her father, testing its weight with a sure flick of her wrist.
“Captain Seraphim is ordered to engage,” Storne rasped. “If you’ll accept this contest, Amerei?”
She lifted her head, sunlight torching her crown. Then she looked at Viktor.
The thunder faded. The spray. Even Storne’s shadow.
Only her gaze remained.
Her lips shaped the words without sound, but he felt them in his bones.
“I trust you.”
The ache in his chest deepened. Vow and dread collided until he could barely breathe.
She didn’t step back.
She raised her blade.
The first clash jolted through his arm—her strength surprising him, her fire unmistakable.
Their eyes locked across the steel, the falls roaring around them.
She swung harder, beautiful and defiant. He slipped past and tapped the flat of his blade to her shoulder, a grin tugging before he could stop it.
Her eyes flashed.
Another lunge—cleaner, faster.
He brushed the edge of her cloak.
“Better.”
The air between them crackled—breathless, dangerous—
until a hard strike crashed between their blades, breaking them apart.
Storne pressed in, his strikes brutal, each one driving Viktor back a pace.
