I swallow before I speak. Hoping that when words do come out, they’re not squeaky or giving away the emotional turmoil running rampant through my body. ‘So, a lighter dagger is better than a heavier one?’
‘Depends on what you’re going for,’ he answers. ‘They’re quicker, sure. And they won’t tire you out as fast. You’ll be more agile if fighting hand to hand, but they do lose momentum faster, so the further you are from your target, the less penetration power it has.’
‘So, for argument’s sake, if I were to throw this and someone were to open my door …’
‘Hilarious, Nocthare,’ he deadpans, but there’s mirth behind his tone. ‘All right, now show me what you’ve been subjecting your door to.’
My spine straightens. My attention shifts from him to the door and in one fluid motion, as if from all the hours I’ve spent practising this one move, from this one particular spot, the dagger flies from my fingers with a whoosh. It cuts through the air with swift precision and sticks into the second inner ring of my makeshift target.
‘Not bad, but it could be better,’ he states. It’s not cold, but a little detached maybe, as if the combat leader can’t help but seep out of him.
My head snaps around, and annoyance flickers in the set of my jaw as I pad to the door and pluck the dagger from it.
‘All right, Mr I’m Good at Everything, your turn.’ I walk toward him and extend the dagger between us. ‘Hit the target,’ I challenge.
One of his dark brows cock s. ‘You sure you want to do this, acolyte?’ He snatches the dagger from me then proceeds to flip it in his hand, catching it by the blade with two of his fingers.
‘Show off,’ I mutter. ‘I thought arrogance gets you killed.’
‘So does a lack of skill. Now, do you still have that chalk?’
‘Yes. Why?’ My eyes narrow.
‘Go grab it,’ is all he says, lining himself up with the target.
I watch him for a moment; unable to figure out where this is leading. Finally, I huff a sigh and step around him. I rummage through the shelf in the corner and return to him with the chalk sticking up between the fingers of my closed fist. Flipping him off with it.
‘Here it is.’ I smile. It really is the little things in life that keep us going.
‘Cute.’ His eyes roll. ‘Draw a circle anywhere on that door,’ he points toward it. ‘And I’ll bet you that I can hit it.’
‘Really?’ I ask. ‘Anywhere?’
He nods, his chin lifting in confidence.
I walk to the door and take a moment to assess where I’ll place the circle, trying to think of the most difficult spot. I don’t want to make this easy for him. So, I decide to stretch up onto the tips of my toes and draw a circle, about the size of a coin, at the very top of the door,thinking the upward angle would be harder to nail down than one at eye level. Not to mention the small size of the target.
‘Let’s see you try and hit that,’ I say smugly, whirling around to see his reaction. But his eyes aren’t on the circle I drew, they’re fixed on my bare legs.
I work through a swallow as I shift on my feet, feeling my skin prickle under his heavy gaze. With a blink, Sebastian’s eyes flick up to mine as if he’s just realised that he was staring. Then they lift higher to search for the target. It takes him a moment but when he finds it, he gives me a look.
‘You said to put it anywhere and you didn’t say how big,’ I explain, a little out of breath. What is happening here? What exactly are we doing? We’re not civil, we don’t play games, and we certainly don’t stare at each other likethat.
‘I’d suggest that you move.’ He lifts the dagger, and I slide out of the way, standing next to my dresser to watch.
It happens quickly. The dagger is in his hand one moment, and then flipping through the air in a blur and thudding into the wood the next. My jaw drops in disbelief as I pad toward the door and find the dagger dead centre of my little circle.
‘How’d youdothat?’ I gasp, reaching up to yank the dagger out of the wood with a huff. ‘That circle wastiny.’
‘I like a challenge.’
‘Or you were lucky.’
That makes him laugh. ‘Luck had nothing to do with it. I practised dagger throwing for years before I even started at ValAc.’
My fingers tap along the edge of the blade, and curiosity gets the better of me because I find myself asking, ‘How old were you when you started?’
He stuffs his hands into his front pockets as his lips purse in thought. ‘I think I was around fourteen.’
