The ring of steel being drawn precedes the man’s resuming footfalls.
Rounding the corner, he strides right through the entrance and along the path toward me, his steps no longer stealthy.
My second whistle to Nara must have betrayed my location, but I’m unperturbed.
Another chime of steel tells me he’s drawn a second blade. Both swords, judging by the extended ringing sound. Wise to approach me with the same style and number of weapons I use.
His steps quicken, approaching fast along the path.
I draw both of my blades, relying solely on my hearing, unhurried in my actions.
My confidence is well earned, but I won’t underestimate my opponent.
His blades flash through the air toward me, becoming clear within the snowfall, striking as quickly and as accurately as I anticipated.
I deflect both. Then again as he strikes a second time, our swords ringing in the air, the sounds drowned out by the screaming wind.
He’s fast, attacking again and again.
While I block his strikes, I catch glimpses of his features through the storm. He has dull-black hair, the color of a lowborn, and his clothing is unrefined.
And yet he’s held his own with me for an entire minute, moving quickly, striking hard.
I brace for the next strike, luring him closer. The moment his swords clash with mine, I’m ready.
My frost power rages across my palms, down both of my blades, but it doesn’t stop there, flooding across his swords too.
He gives a shout when, a heartbeat later, the ice solidifies, attaching his blades to mine.
Dropping my weight, I wrench my arms down and then out, pulling his weapons away from him. Using the outward momentum, I fling our joined weapons to either side of us across the garden.
One joined set crashes through a stone sculpture, thecrackof splitting stone louder than the shrieking wind, while the other two joined swords sail far across the snow.
By wrenching downward, I’ve pulled the man toward me and my movements are now lightning fast.
Before he can evade my punch, my empty right fist collides with his chest.
My icy power smashes across his torso and the impact knocks him onto his back.
He lands between sculptures.
I’m upon him in seconds, pinpointing his location once again from sound alone, since the storm has only gotten worse.
Despite the debilitating strike to his chest, he’s trying to get up.
Before he can rise, my right knee collides with his ribs, pinning him to the ground.
He struggles against my hold, punching at my leg, his wheezing breaths telling me he’s struggling to breathe.
His fists fly upward as I lean down, but I absorb the impact of every strike and wrap my hand around his right shoulder, closest to his heart.
Frost shoots across my palm.
Agonizing, heart-stopping frost.
He freezes. Stops struggling. Passes out for a few seconds—I can tell from his heartbeat—before coming back to what must be breathtaking agony.
I’m impressed he isn’t screaming.
