Brela launched out of the maze next, two wooden daggers in her grips as her loose braid flew behind her. The sleeves of her damp white tunic had been rolled up to her elbows, her left forearm already bruised and a tear in her pant leg revealing another angry welt along her thigh.
As she angled herself over Elias to strike, he kicked. And he didn’t hold back. The impact could be heard across the training yard as Brela flew away from him. But to her, it was only an inconvenience. Instead of tumbling, she rolled gracefully, digging her blades into the grass to slow her momentum as her head snapped back to him.
Elias was on her in another moment, the two dancing and trading blows left and right. Spinning, dodging, thrusting. If they hadn’t been shouting instructions at each other, Cason would have believed they were actually trying to kill each other. Brela ordered him to defend certain attacks. Elias snapped back whenever she left herself exposed. She’d jab him with her wooden dagger and he’d return the favor with a strength-blessed fist.
It was somehow the most beautiful and most fearsome training routine Cason had ever seen. He’d practiced with Boelyn like Elias and Brela fought now, but he’d always held back. He had trained with Era at partial strength, but he’d never challenged Serill with anything close to that reduced power. Seeing as the prince had a look of both horror and awe on his face as he watched them, Cason was pretty sure Serill would never volunteer to train with anyone at full force.
Sweat rolled down Brela’s face, the hair that had fallen out of her braid now clinging to her skin. Cason was more focused on the grin she wore, pale eyes sparkling with energy. He’d seen what she could do—against the Wraturo and Warley—and the realization hit him quickly.
She was holding back.
Brela, with no magic, was holding herself back against a strength-blessed man who carried twice her bodyweight in muscle.
Four hells, he should not find that so thrilling, but he couldn’t help himself. He knew he shouldn’t admire the way her muscles rippled with each precise shift of her feet. The way her hair flew wildly in that braid and exposed the skin along her neck. Or the way that woman seemed to fight as if she were a licking tendril of flame. But, gods, it was intoxicating, and he couldn’t drag his senses away.
Somehow in that dance, she pulled her attention away from Elias and caught Cason’s eyes, and just like they had stared across the fire on the trip to Aelstow, he didn’t back down from that gaze.
Her eyes widened, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
Then, against all odds, she broke the stare first. Her eyes dropped to his chest—his heavily inked and very visible chest—and heshivered. He actually shivered under her stare, especially as her tongue darted over her lips.
Cason had imagined two different outcomes of this moment while he was running. The first was that Brela would be horrified of the fire ink scrawled over his skin. The second was that she’d be impressed but impassive.
Never would he have expected her to do…that. The tongue, the small bite of her lip, the gods-damned heat that flooded her body in an instant.
Shit. Just…shit.
It couldn’t have been more than half a second, but Cason swore that the image of her completely distracted by him would be permanently etched into his thoughts. Except she wasn’t actually distracted by him. Or maybe she was just that good.
Elias tried to take advantage of the shift of attention, but Brela saw it coming without looking his way. In three moves, he was sprawled on the ground without his dagger. A punch to his elbow loosed his weapon, a sweep under his legs sent him crashing to the ground, and then she was straddling him with one dagger at his throat and the other between his legs.
Shit, she was just that good.
Her grin was wicked, as if she knew every man in the courtyard had flinched and pulled their legs tighter.
Elias, still panting, reached up and shifted Brela’s braid off of his face and flung it over her shoulder. “I can’t feel my right arm from that punch.”
Brela laughed and then winced through her heavy breaths. “Says the man who didn’t pull his punch to my ribs.”
“Don’t leave your right side open,” he replied, winking.
Brela groaned as she stood, helping Elias up as she spoke over her shoulder. “Jaws off the ground, gentlemen.”
Cason turned to see both Serill and Boelyn gaping.
Farrah snorted as she patted Serill’s shoulder. “I’m surprised there’s not more blood.”
“Do you do this too?” Cason asked Farrah, though his eyes were back on Brela who looked like she was trying hard not to glance his way.
“Farrah’s usually the one leaving us bloody,” Elias said as he walked toward the prince and Farrah, waving his hand in the air. “I’m out, Bre. I’m still sore from the Wraturo.”
Brela scrunched her nose. “Fine. Farr, you gonna play with pointy sticks all day?”
“You know it,” Farrah called back, her hands already working her healing magic on Elias’s bruises.
Brela rolled her eyes and head dramatically. “Gods, don’t make me run this energy off. Ihaterunning.”
Perhaps against his better judgement, Cason stepped forward. “I’ll go.”
