The added strike.
The one Hale had taught me until my hands hurt.
The one Juno had warned me to use only if I had to.
I had to.
The block came up clumsy but in time.
Wood cracked against wood.
The force ran down my arms and into my teeth.
At the rail, Hale’s chin dipped once.
Barely.
It was the closest thing to praise he had ever given me.
Annoyingly, it helped.
Marcus expected me to fail.
I didn’t.
That was the first mistake anyone in the room had made all morning.
His recovery lagged.
Hale’s fifth form wanted me to step left.
But the old part of me, the part that had learned in alleys and back rooms and kitchens, went lower instead.
I ducked under his recovery, caught the end of his stave with mine, and turned my whole body into the space his confidence had left open.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t an official form.
But it worked.
Marcus went down hard enough that sand jumped at his shoulder.
I followed because every sensible part of me knew better than to admire my own luck before the other person stopped moving.
My stave came across his chest.
He froze.
So did the ring.
For three breaths, no one spoke.
Then Aldric said:
“Pinned.”
Marcus stared up at me.
