No, that’s wrong. He’s even more arrogant than before.
“I’m stronger than you now, Beaufort Lincoln,” he crows.
Something like fear stirs in my stomach, because as I send even more magic his way and watch him dispel it, I realize he could be right.
Damn that dream rot. I should have reported him. I should have killed his damn supplier. Has it really made him more powerful?
“I’m going to destroy you,” he says, with a grin that stretches back his lips and shows his row of slightly crooked teeth. “I’m going to destroy you and serve your mother your head on a fucking plate. I’m going to be the hero of this realm, Beaufort Lincoln. Not you. Me.”
He grunts and shoots his arms forward, an arrow of shadow magic firing right at me.
I meet it with my own, and the force of it sends me sliding along the icy grass.
Our magic struggles against each other, pushing, thrusting, shoving. I can feel the force of it cracking in my fingers.
His is stronger.
Fuck.
His is stronger!
Mine is pushed back, edging toward my outstretched hands.
How did I let this happen? How did I let him get this strong? I was stupid. Complacent. I always dismissed him as nothing more than a nuisance. I should have been paying better attention. I should have been paying better attention for her.
Because if I die, then what the fuck happens next? Without me, we can’t combine our magic and she can’t defeat the Empress.
I grit my teeth and push with all my might, my magic splintering and sparking as it assaults his shadows.
For a moment, it works, and they slide back toward him as he grunts and groans.
But it doesn’t last.
He finds something else. Soon it’s pushing back.
I can’t win this way.
I need to be smarter.
The man is as thick as two planks of wood. I’m cleverer than he is, even if I’m no longer stronger.
So I count in my head. Three. Two. One.
Then I break the connection and dive for the ground, somersaulting over the grass and landing back on my feet several yards away.
It takes him a moment to realize what’s happened, to redirect his shadows, and in that moment I’ve already fired mine back at him.
I get a lucky hit on his shoulder, and he snarls with pain.
He fires back my way. I swerve, dive, fall to the ground, send my shadows toward his feet this time, taking them out from beneath him and sending him tumbling.
Then I’m back up, firing toward him as he fires back.
Our shadows spiral in the air, swerving over our heads, as we dart across the field, chasing one another in a game of cat and mouse.
It’s not working, though. I didn’t take enough advantage while I had it. I didn’t make my strike lethal enough.
He’s injured, but not enough.
