This was supposed to be a practice fight, but this crazy bastard is trying to kill me.
I strike while he’s busy yanking his sword free. I bury my blade into his thigh.
He grunts and rips it out like it’s nothing.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
Is he so focused on killing me that he refuses to feel pain? That should have made him falter.
He smiles. It’s wrong. Twisted. It sends a shiver straight down my spine as he slowly advances towards me.
“Do you want to know your weakness, Warrick?” he asks. “You feel too much. Your face is a map of your emotions. It makes you sloppy. It makes you predictable.”
“So, I am supposed to be a cold, unfeeling bastard, like you?”
We circle each other.
“You looked like you’d faint after you slaughtered that girl yesterday,” he remarks. “First kill?”
I tighten my jaw.
“It gets easier,” he continues.
“It shouldn’t,” I say.
“Wrong profession,” Ender says. “You can always leave.”
“No, I can’t,” I say. “It’s Black Star or die. Remember?”
I drop into a roll as his blade whistles through the air, the cut close enough that I feel it skim my hair. I come up fast, snatching my fallen knife and throwing it on instinct.
He tilts his head and bats it aside, smacking the hilt. He’s on me before I can recover. A hand clamps around my throat and slams me into the wall. His blade presses against my heart.
“This is what happens when you forget your place,” Ender says.
My vision spots. My fingers claw at his wrist, but it’s useless against his strength. He tightens his grip enough to make a point. My knee slides between his legs as I aim for his manhood. Last time I tried this, I didn’t get the chance to strike true. But this time it lands.
Ender snarls and staggers back. I don’t wait. I grab the blade he ripped out from his thigh and slash at his arm. The steel sinks in, biting deep enough to draw blood.
“That’s not very nice, sunshine,” he says between clenched teeth.
He comes at me again, faster than before. I barely keep up. Every block sends pain screaming down my wrists. He herds me until my back is against the wall again. I’m boxed in with nowhere left to retreat.
His long blade knocks mine aside, and his hand coils around my throat once more.
“Bend,” he snarls.
He applies enough pressure to force me to my knees. My eyes burn with venom.
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t sever your head and use it as a footstool?”
My chest rises and falls. He could kill me at any moment. And I signed that damn contract so he won’t suffer any repercussions.
“Because you’d have to see my face more than you’d like?”
“You’re right,” Ender agrees. “Thatwouldbe distasteful.”
I swallow back the insult that dances on my tongue. Once I’m a few feet away from him, I’ll respond. That is assuming he releases me and lets me live.
