After several minutes, I can say without hesitation that Isabeau is the best human fighter I’ve met. There’s a viciousness to her, a sense that she can see my next moves before they are fully present. Only the Hunter before me was this much of a challenge. I find that I must focus in a way I only did when fighting Father or faeries.
Isabeau has the same look of concentration that I know I wear. She blocks even the series of oberhau, mittelhau, mittelhau, unterhau that typically stalls casual fighters. That’s the series I drill each day for my starting and ending stretch, so my speed with that series of cuts—from above, side, side, below—tends to be harder to block.
Not for Isabeau.
I am the first to reach a draw.
Isabeau is the next.
The more we fight, the more it’s obvious that we are well matched. She fights as well as I didbeforeFather’s death. My competitive side slips then, and I let go of the restraint I use when sparring with humans. My sword slices through the air audibly, and I let myself move at a speed that reveals that I am no longer merely human.
With the Hunter’s gifts, I am unparalleled. That truth is not arrogance; it’s simply a necessity for the Hunter. No monster is as slow as humans. So to be the one who fights them requires that there is something inside me that is not, in fact, merely human.
And she can almost keep up,a warning insists.
My Hunter’s urge wants to defeat Isabeau.
The Duke of Maudite stares at me as I step in and disarm her. We stand chest to chest, and with a press of the blade, I force Maudite to relinquish her weapon. “You were not disappointing, Your Grace,” I assure her, gazes locked and breaths mingling. “Again, I find myself more than satisfied by your talents.”
I brace for the rude words about my inhuman speed, but Isabeau isn’t looking upon me as if I am an aberration. Respect glimmers in her gaze.
“You are magnificent,” Isabeau pronounces. Then, she steps back. “Still having unladylike thoughts about my ability to—”
“Your Grace.Isabeau.My thoughts were not ones of doubt.” I keep my voice pitched low as I make my confession: “It was not uncharitable thoughts that stilled my lips. I find you beautiful and talented, and I’ve wanted to spar with you since we werechildren.”
“Oh . . .”
“Anyone who is fool enough to look upon you with anything less than praise should hope not to meet me in the dark,” I add, hoping a lighter tone will make her smile because right now the duke looks completely dumbfounded by my words. “You are worth more than one look, Your Grace. I was enjoying looking.”
“I thought—”
“You fight well, especially for a noble,” I add.
“You fight better than any man in the Royal Guard,” Isabeau says, sounding awed. “You ... you are good enough to guard the queen herself. Isthatyour secret? Do you plan to choose a life of service? I would still want to court you.”
“No.” I stare at her, wishing briefly for another destiny, and in a guilty flicker, even wishing that this obligation fell to my sister, anything but be the Hunter. I know that I will never have the life of a normal noblewoman, but for a heartbeat, I dream.
I reach into one of my pockets. The weight of the letter I clutch in my hand seems more than mere parchment and ink should ever be able to contain. All my childhood dreams are about to die.
I hold it so Isabeau can see her own seal.
“Why do you have that?” Isabeau asks, eyes wide in panic. “Did the Hunter—”
“The village of Fleuriste is where missives are sent for the Hunter,” I say softly, my voice as gentle as if I were facing a wolf in the forest. “The Hunter is why you came to the village, was it not?”
“Yes, but—”
“It seems like such a thin ruse, one no one ought to believe ... There is magic at play, of course, keeping mortal minds from realizing the truth.” I hold Maudite’s gaze. “The letters to theHuntercomehere.”
“The Hunter is a man,” Isabeau protests. “You said he trained you, not that you—”
“He did. My father trained me because being the Hunter is a hereditary obligation, Your Grace. He did train me, not to guard the queen or to join theWächter. He trained me to kill monsters after he died.”
“You said you knew his daughter,” she mutters.
“Idoknow his daughter. My sister is his daughter ... as I am.” I fight to keep my voice steady, to not cry out that I want her to still love me. I keep my gaze fixed solidly on Isabeau’s. “When one Hunter dies, the gifts pass to the next. My father had no sons. He died, Isa. He died at the hand of the Beast of Brimmond, and I changed. Much like titles in the peerage, this duty is inherited. I am the H—”
“No! You cannot be.” Isabeau shakes her head, as if she rejects reality. She takes a step toward me. Her eyes are wide as she snatches the letter and starts to shred it into fine pieces that drift to our feet.
