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"You looked."

"At a clock."

"Don't." I know what he means. Stop counting. I hate that he's right.

The field is empty. Covered. Protected from the cold by high stone walls. Lanterns burn along the perimeter. No magic tonight. No Blood Echo. No dragon manifestation. No bond. Nothing we can't control. Rhyven locks the gate. Tosses me one blade.

I catch it. "Rules?"

"No magic."

"Obviously."

"Full contact."

I raise an eyebrow. "Scared I'll hurt you?"

"No."

"There he is." His mouth almost moves.

"First to disarm."

"How many?"

"Until midnight."

I look toward the clock again. He taps my blade with his. "Stop."

"Fine."

He attacks first. Fast. No warning. I block. Barely.

Wood cracks against wood. My body wakes instantly. Good. Exactly what I needed. Again. He drives me backward. I pivot. Slip beneath his arm. Strike toward his ribs. He catches my wrist. Twists. I release before he can disarm me. Switch hands. Strike again.

His blade intercepts. "Better."

"Don't sound surprised."

"I'm not."

"Your face is offensive."

"So I've heard."

He pushes harder. So do I. Within minutes, my sweater sticks between my shoulder blades. Breathing deepens. The rest of the Academy disappears. No bells. No Sunday. No blank line beneath Friday. Just—Rhyven. Blade. Movement.

He knows how I fight now. That's the problem. Every habit. Every tell. My left foot shifts before I lunge. My shoulder drops before I pivot. I favor my right side when I'm tired. He knows. Unfortunately I know him too. He doesn't telegraph much. But not nothing. His weight settles almost imperceptibly before a heavy strike. His eyes change before he goes low. The muscles along his forearm tighten when he's about to trap my weapon. Weeks ago, I couldn't have seen any of it. Tonight I do.

His blade comes toward my shoulder. I duck. Spin. My back hits his chest for half a second as I rotate inside his guard. Heat. Solid muscle. His breath catches near my ear. Mine does too. I drive my elbow backward. He avoids it. Barely. Then catches my waist and moves me aside before my momentum sends both of us into the wall. I land two feet away. Turn. "That counted."

"No."

"You grabbed me."

"You were falling."

"I was attacking."