I did trust that. And I’d rather die fighting Faun than by a poke to the throat from her fucking partner.
My hand went over the grip of my short sword, and I drew.
Faun drew her own sword, a slender rapier. We were of similar height and build, and I saw immediately in the way her rapier’s point touched the ground and the sidelong stance she took that she was more than capable.
She was probably better than me. And she had two good eyes.
“Tell me,” she said, unmoving. “In your kingdom, do they spin tales of our evilness?”
I stood with my sword raised, uncomprehending. Adrenaline had seeped into my limbs, and I was ready to fight and die. I stared at her and finally said, “Yes.”
A small smile appeared on her face. It was tinged with anemotion I couldn’t read—but it almost looked like pain. “Of course they do.”
Then she struck.
Her sword flashed in the crystal’s light, singing through the air toward me. I barely managed to block, and her blade slid down mine before she stepped forward and brought it up in an arc toward my head.
I blocked again and ducked, sidestepping. Her blade followed like a wasp, angry and unable to be put off. I parried, backstepping toward the cave’s mouth. She swung, I blocked—and she was already swinging again. Defense, defense, defense. Not one opening for me, her whippet-thin arm moving so fast it blurred. Her eyes were wide, luminous in the purple light.
Where had she learned to fight like this?
A servant. A floor-scrubber.
But she’s Sylvanwild. They’re all like that.
Ruthless, unyielding, wielding death like a birthright.
She swung hard, the clang ringing in my ears when our swords met. I could not help but respect these fae, this court. Another swing. Another, distracting me with a sweep I had to leap away from. Then?—
She swung the blade up with a whistle and sliced my cheek.
Pain bloomed there, and the warmth of blood seeping out of my already swollen face.
Her partner blew out a breath from where he stood, but Faun’s face remained serious. She took no pleasure in this. And she meant every swing, every thrust.
I had to win, or I would die.
Now. Now was all I had.
Dorian’s voice entered my head, harsh and sharp. Every day we’d arrived at one endpoint in our sparring, our time spent clashing in the citadel. It was the moment I had to wait for:
Other hand.
She struck again, and this time I thrust her blade aside andlunged forward. I tossed my sword to the opposite hand and struck at her. My sword cut through her leather jerkin at her waist, and she let out a cry.
I had cut her. The pettifey had cut a Sylvanwild fae.
Even I couldn’t believe it.
Now her eyes were wide and wild, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to use that trick on her again. She moved faster, more whiplike. She came at me again and again, and all I could focus on was blocking and parrying and keeping the point of her blade from skewering me through the breast.
She was twice as skillful with a blade. She was better than me on my best day.
But I was a daughter of scorn. We were never down until we were dead.
I waited, backstepping and blocking. I waited for just the right strike to come. When it did, I allowed it. The tip of her blade went into my shoulder, and I only half muffled the cry that escaped through gritted teeth. The pain was like lightning through my left arm. And yet I had no choice.
I reached out with that arm—fuck, it felt like setting my blunt knife straight to my own nerves—and a cry grated its way out of my throat. But this was it; I couldn’t stop moving.
