His sword clatters away across the stone.
I expect a scowl, but instead, he smiles. Not smug.Proud.
He lunges and sweeps my feet out from under me. I hit the mat with a grunt, knocking the wind out of me. He’s over me in an instant, eyes bright with the game. My fingers fumble for the dagger in my boot.
In one reckless, stupid move, I wrench it free and drag the tip up beneath his guard.
It kisses his skin—a shallow cut, thin and hot. Blood beads.
“Keiren—” I choke, horror flattening me. I jerk the dagger away from his throat, but he doesn’t even flinch.
Instead, with a calm that makes my chest hurt, he captures my wrist in his hand and lowers his neck, closing the distance and gently pressing my hand back to the bleeding line at his throat.
I look away, horrified, my breath coming in shallow pants.
“Look at me.” His thumb brushes my knuckles, a paradox of tenderness and command. “Breathe. Four in.”
My breath trembles.
He lets the weight of my hand rest there, safe in his, and begins to count. “One, two, three….”
He continues like that for a minute until my breathing steadies. His eyes beg the question,Shall we continue?
I nod, ever so slightly.
“From this position, if you have daggers, use them.” He guides my fingers so my blade moves from his throat to his back. “The kidneys are quite an effective target, as is the liver. If your opponent is wearing armor, there are usually gaps here”—he guides my hand to the joint at his shoulder—“and here.” He brings my hand lower—just inside his hip, nearthatarea.
“And what if I don’t have a blade?” I ask, still a little shaky.
“Well, you can’t throw me off with sheer force, so try to use your center of gravity, not your arms. If you step inside my reach and hook your leg behind my knee, you can shift my base. If you drop your weight and twist your hips, my balance will break.”
He demonstrates the move. He’s taller and heavier, but when he tilts, I feel the subtle physics—how a small pivot can collapse an otherwise solid stance. He lets me practice the motion slowly, my knee sweeping where he indicates. Once I’ve mastered that, he resists, then gives way, then resists again until the motion becomes muscle memory.
“Use soft spots to make space,” he instructs me, leaning so close that I can sense the scrape of his breath against my cheeks. “The armpit, the inner thigh, the base of the ribs—push, shove, create an opening. If you have a dagger, use it as a point of control: Press, shove, then exit. Always create distance.”
With a quick, controlled twist, he takes my wrist and flips my grip, showing me how a smaller opponent can leverage a larger one’s mass. He demonstrates how to control his head by cupping the base of his skull and using my shoulders to unbalance him—then lets me try.
I fumble, he steadies me, and I try again—and again—until I’m able to flip and straddle him. It’s then that I notice the spot where I’d cut him is no longer red but black.
“Keiren!” I blurt.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, sitting up, his hands now cupping my face, eyes full of concern.
“Your neck. Did I do that?”
He sighs a breath of relief. “No, my Fire—well, yes, you did, but I’m alright.” He takes the dagger from me, bringing his palm up.
“Don’t!” I scream, but then watch in fascination. The blood is already darkening, turning from red to something deeper—black as ink—before rippling into a sheen of small, metallic scales. They glint in the torchlight before fading back into skin.
“Scales?” I whisper.
He nods. “A part of the curse. My life is tied to the dragon’s.”
“So, every time you’re hurt, you heal?” I ask.
“Not instantly, but yes. The scales form, creating another armor of sorts.”
“My mother told me that nothing can penetrate dragon armor.”
