Page 97 of On Brutal Thrones

My stomach drops.

She comes at me again.

And again.

Every time I try to dodge, she knows where I’m going. Every time I raise my dagger, hers is already there. She’s stronger, faster, and crueler than I am. She takes every cheap shot I would hesitate to take, kicking at my knees, driving her shoulder into my chest, flinging a handful of wet sand straight into my face.

I cry out, stumbling backward. Grit fills my mouth and sticks between my teeth. My eyes burn viciously, tears pouring down my cheeks as I blink and swipe at them.

She could kill me while I’m blinded. The thought sends a bolt of pure terror through me.

I swing wildly, expecting to feel her dagger sink into my stomach at any second, but instead I hear that awful laugh again.

When my vision finally clears, she’s circling me.

Enjoying herself.

Her face is mine. Her mouth is mine. But that heartless smile isn’t.

I wipe my watering eyes with the back of my wrist. I can’t keep playing defense. It’s time to fight back.

With a cry, I drive forward, dagger aimed at her stomach.

She twists.

I twist.

She strikes.

I strike.

Every move I think of, she anticipates. Worse, she throws the same attack back at me while I stumble away, breathless and exhausted. A dagger flashes toward my stomach. I barely twist away. Another comes toward my face, close enough that I feel the air move against my cheek. The next nearly buries itself in the meaty part of my thigh.

We dance around each other for what feels like forever, boots digging trenches through the sand. My lungs burn. Sweat crawls down my spine despite the cold mist curling almost lovingly around my ankles.

Tears run freely down my face now, partly from the sand and partly from sheer frustration. There’s no way to beat her. The realization settles into my stomach like a stone.

She knows every move I know. She has all the same training, every lesson Thorian and the others have beaten into me. It’s as if she has a catalog of every choice I might make and can see which one I’m reaching for before I’ve even committed to it.

I can’t beat someone who knows what I’m going to do before I do it. Unless...

I stagger back, sucking air into aching lungs. There’s no way for me to beat her if I act like myself. The thought comes fully formed, startling in its clarity. What would Talon do?

He’d taunt her. Make some snide remark designed to piss her off. If he were fighting a woman, he might even flirt with her just to see if he could throw her off.

No.

Absolutely not.

I’m not Talon, and I’m certainly not flirting with myself.

Fenric would lower his head and attack like his life depended on destroying whatever stood in front of him. If he got angry enough, he’d change, giving himself strength I could never hope to match.

I can’t do that either.

Then Thorian flashes through my mind. His sword. His brute grace. The way he marries strength and skill so completely they seem like the same thing. I remember struggling to lift his sword while running from Talon, while Thorian handles it as if the weapon weighs nothing at all.

No. I can’t fight like them. I just have to do something I would never do.