“Only by your ego,” the general replied, bowing to Dimitris, who bowed in return.
The two circled each other once before taking up their fighting stance: fists raised up close to their faces, knees pliant, feet light. Elias threw the first punch, aiming at Dimitris’s jaw with a cross, following quickly with a jab and another cross—his usual starting combination. Dimitris anticipated each throw of Elias’s fists, taking every blow with a block.
Most would say that knowing your opponent is an advantage in hand-to-hand combat. In some cases it may be, though for Elias, itonly made him complacent. Against any other opponent a formulaic pattern of punches and footwork would allow him to win. His sheer size would dominate and overpower most men and women. However, against Dimitris, this was his downfall.
He watched the general closely, waiting until the fourth combination he would throw. This is where Elias always paused, only for a moment, dropping his arms too much for a quick block. Dimitris used the brief lapse in Elias’s stance to his advantage, throwing a jab, cross, jab. The sound of a cartilage cracking filled the silent air. The general stumbled back slightly, wiping the blood that now dribbled from his broken nose and Dimitris struck once more with an uppercut under Elias’s chin.
The final blow came as Dimitris barreled his fist directly below Elias’s ribs, causing the general to buckle over and fall to his knees. When he hit the deck, Elias tapped the ground three times, signaling the end of their match. It wasn’t often that he yielded without Dimitris forcing him to, usually when Dimitris had Elias pinned in a chokehold on the ground.
“That was a good one, Elias,” Dimitris said through heaving breaths, reaching his hand out to the general to help pull him up from the ground.
“I will give you that one, Prince, but next time you better watch your back.” Elias grinned wide and winked at him.
“Who is next?” Dimitris asked, pulling two more of his crew in to spar. It was effortless, going through every movement with them. A calm of sorts.
Dimitris had been so entranced in the motions of their match, he had not realized the two additional onlookers until a boomingwhoopcame from his uncle’s mouth. Dafne leaned against the rail of the ship watching as she conversed back and forth with Cal. The raven-haired seer had taken comfort in Dimitris’s uncle, and he was grateful to the old man for watching over her, giving her the grace and healing words he often extended to those around him.He could feel her stare burning into his skin as she watched him spar with the two men, her eyes following each throw of his fist, each block he held with his forearm. It wasn’t a lustful stare, those he knew well from the women at home in Nexos, but strangely one that hinted at curiosity—jealousy even.
Sweat rolled down his chest and back, despite the winter’s chill that came with the early morning. He wiped his arm across his forehead, making sure the tiny beads of sweat that clung to his brow did not make it into his eyes.
“Let’s take a break, men.” Dimitris nodded to his two sparring partners, signaling for them to rehydrate and rest before resuming lessons.
He strode over to where Cal and Dafne stood, the seer’s brows still wrinkled in. “You enjoy the show, Dafne?”
The young woman cocked her head at him as her eyes roamed across his chest. “How do you do it?”
“Spar?” Dimitris asked.
Her crimson lips rolled between her teeth and she paused for a moment before replying, her arms crossed firmly across her body. Closed off. “Defeat someone like him? Someone larger, stronger, faster? Someone who…” she trailed off, her eyes glazing over with a memory that Dimitris did not want to know. “I’m not sure I could ever do that.”
“It is just about mastering technique. Would you like me to teach you?” Dimitris reached his hand out to the woman, wishing desperately that she would take it. Someone like her deserved more than most to feel confident, to feel like she could hold her own, protect herself against the wickedness that spread through Odessia.
Her eyes dropped to her feet, head shaking. “I’m actually quite tired. I think I’ll retire to my quarters.”
Dafne had been so fiery the past few days, joking with him and her sister, being protective as Thalia healed. What could have caused the change? Because this woman before him looked afraid.
“Alright. But Dafne”—the raven-haired seer looked up at him, her eyes strained and glassy—“the offer will stand. For as long as you want it to.”
“Thank you,” she whispered before Cal wrapped his arm around her and led her toward the stairs.
“It will take her time—to trust a man again. Eventually you all start to look the same,” a familiar voice sounded from beside him.
Gods, where did she even come from? Had she been there the entire time? Watching him? Thalia stood, her moon-white hair twisted up in a braid that wrapped around the crown of her head. Tight trousers hugged her body close and a thick jacket covered her shoulders, but still she trembled in the winter’s air. Instinctually, Dimitris was driven to wrap his arms around her once more, to give her some of the heat that came so naturally to him, but she retreated a step at his motion.
Dimitris dropped his arms to his side, going against every fiber of his being to protect. “And did it take you time? When you first stepped aboard my brother’s ship?”
She pierced him with those blazing violet eyes. “Yes, but Ander gave me time…more time than maybe I even needed.”
“Then I will as well.” He would do anything for the good of his crew, and now that included Dafne.
“She will come to you.” Thalia placed her hand on his arm, curling her fingers lightly. “When she is ready. She was always afighter—even more than me. She will want to learn, and I cannot think of a better person to help her do so.”
Did Thalia really just compliment him? Before he could even blink, make some mocking comment, she was gone.
Chapter Seven
Thalia
Gods dammit, this man needed to put a shirt on right this instant. How many times would he be wandering about in the winter wearing nothing but some loose fitting trousers, always somehow slung low enough the V of his muscles pointed right toward something Thalia had not seen in quite some time? She’d stood off to the side, slightly hidden by the sail of the ship as she’d watched him and one of the Nexian soldiers spar. His movements were intoxicating, the flow of his body as it dodged and deflected, the ease of his steps when he went on the attack. Thalia sparred with the best of Skiatha’s soldiers, but never once had she seen someone with such eloquence land blows like Dimitris.
