“No.” Mariah’s interruption was clipped, her glare sharpening on Andrian. “You’ll spar with me. And not with fists.” She padded to the pile of blunt training weapons they’d carried up with them. Selecting two short swords and taking a deep drink from a waterskin, she walked back to where Andrianand Matheo stood. She lifted her chin at Andrian, ignoring the way her heart started to race in her chest. “Well?”
Matheo glanced between them, a little wary, before shrugging and heading toward the tree line. He fell into the grass with a thump, taking a swig of water.
Andrian’s lips curled slowly into a grin. “You sure, princess?”
Her skin prickled. “What, you scared, Armature?”
His expression dimmed. He raked a hand through his hair, that one errant strand falling back across his forehead. He flipped his sword in his grip, a terrifyingly smooth movement honed by years and years of practice.
Mariah had never sparred with Andrian. She’d watched him train and fight, of course, but never had they partnered together like this. Gods, they’d done everything else together, but something about this felt more dangerous. Intimate. Exposed. Like they would be forced to confront each other’s weaknesses, knowing it would only serve to hold a mirror up to themselves.
She’d thought this would be a good idea. That it would break them free from this insane standstill he’d caught them in. She wanted to shake her tension free, to get him to realize that whatever had happened in that castle, she could handle it.
But the way he held his blade like an extension of his arm; the way his body was honed like a weapon itself; the way sweat ran over the ridge of the crude scar bisecting his Mark, gleaming down the hard lines of his abdominals?—
She swallowed again, adjusting her grip on her swords. They slowly circled each other, like sharks deep in the Mirrored Sea.
“Don’t you dare go easy on me.”
Andrian smirked. “Oh, princess. When have I ever?”
They came together in a blurred clash of steel.
Mariah ducked, Andrian’s sword whistling through the air. Her weapons were raised, and she whirled to parry his nextattack. Metal met metal with a clang, sliding off each other with a whistle.
And again it went.
Mariah’s muscles burned, sweat dripping in her eyes. Her braided hair whipped around her shoulders as they locked into a dance of thrusts and parries, of jabs and blocks.
Though her heart raced, though her lungs gasped for breath, her bloodsang.
There was a language to this dance. Neither of them was a soldier; neither of them had yet found their way into true war. But deep in them both lived an animalistic draw to fight, a connection to conflict, a need to battle.
Training was like scratching the surface. This? This was setting it all free.
She danced around him, close enough to see the burning in his eyes. She knew the wild grin he wore was reflected on her own face, an answering call to the thrill ofthis.
Instinct took control. Mariah’s eyes fluttered shut, her swords arching, the wind brushing gently across her skin and her lungs sighing with exertion?—
Something dull hit just the right place on her left wrist. Her fingers relaxed, opening, her sword falling to the ground.
She gasped, opening her eyes and jumping back. Andrian still grinned, kicking her sword a few feet away with the toe of his boot. “That was sloppy. You’re better than that, princess.”
Oh,fuckthat. He was not winning this.
She threw herself back at him with a snarl. This time she was sharper, the magic of their dance shifting into something more primal, more urgent. Her grin was gone, replaced by all the rage and heartache and splintered edges that bubbled and overflowed in her chest.
When the hilt of his sword came down, aiming again for the bony ridge of her wrist, she let him land the blow. Let her secondsword fall from her grasp, landing between their feet. Let his attention flicker down to the ground for just a small, fleeting moment.
Long enough for her to move. She dropped, leg shooting out, and swiped it across his heels. His balance was off, his concentration slipped.
He tumbled to the ground, landing hard on his back. His grip loosened on his sword, and it fell just out of his reach.
She was on him, dagger freed from its holster and silver blade pressed to the column of his throat. She straddled him, pinning him to the ground, the dragon-wings on the hilt digging into the back of her hand.
“Tell. Me.” The words were panted between her aching lungs and hammering heart, her face twisted into a contorted snarl.
Andrian gazed up, arms spread out on either side of him, and something in his expressionbroke.
