The solemn one would never be able to stand against him. The brother was a Smith. The heir. He was uninjured.
The battle-hardened brother’s eyes narrowed.
The solemn one was dressed in black. His scars lined his face. His long hair was tied back. His short beard had a spray of blood.
He looked nothing like the man the battle-hardened brother had seen during the games.
Yet he tilted his head and studied the streetlight hitting the solemn one’s face.
They were stuck between the river and the burning fortress, pinned in a narrow, tree-lined street.
“I know you,” the battle-hardened brother said.
The solemn one smiled. “No. You don’t.”
He lunged. His form blurred.
The battle-hardened brother shouted and leaped back as the solemn one’s knife sliced the air. The knife missed his abdomen by a hair.
The Smith cousins surrounded him, prepared to attack, but the brother waved them off.
“No!” he shouted. “One of the last things my father asked me to do was to kill this man. It looks like I get to grant his wish.”
The solemn one darted left and sliced. The brother dodged and conjured a fire sword.
“Do you always do what your daddy tells you to?” the solemn one taunted.
“In this case, yes.”
The brother attacked. There was no finesse. No grace. There was only brute, pounding force.
The brother’s sword had a longer reach. The solemn one could only leap out of the way. He darted and swiped, dodging and trying to find a hole.
It reminded the wind of a battle between a dragon and a gnat.
Maybe the solemn one could hide his injury from the humans, but the wind could sense his pain. It could feel the struggling shudder of his lungs.
The brother laughed. “You’re injured. Two more minutes of jumping around, and you’ll kill yourself.”
The solemn one threw a knife. The brother smacked it aside. He threw another. Again and again, his hands moved faster than rain. His movements blurred, and the knives flew in a violent barrage.
But the battle-hardened brother was a Smith, and he’d been raised to be the Smith.
What could the solemn one do?
He coughed, and a spray of blood leaked from his lips. Then he palmed his two last knives and faced the battle-hardened brother.
“Were you the one who lit up my home?”
The solemn one smiled.
“Why?” the brother asked.
“Because you burned mine.”
The brother laughed. “Good answer.”
That wasn’t the reason. The wind knew this, but the brother didn’t.
