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"Rhyven." His eyes narrow. I smile. "Scared, Corvell?" There. Old reliable.

His gaze changes. Only slightly. "Constantly." The word lands differently now. Because I've felt his fear.

I know what lives beneath that joke. Neither of us comments.

Rhyven steps onto the mat. "Five minutes."

I follow. "Ten."

"Six."

"Eight."

"Five."

"You're terrible at negotiation."

"You already agreed to five." Damn. No magic. No blades. Close-contact combat. Exactly what I need.

Probably exactly what I shouldn't be doing with him.

We begin. Rhyven attacks first. I block. He tests left. I don't fall for it. Right. Pivot. His hand catches my wrist. I twist free. Better. He comes again. Faster. I duck. Sweep. He steps over it. Of course. "Predictable."

"Arrogant."

"Accurate." I strike. He blocks.

Second round. He puts me on the mat in eleven seconds. I stare up at him. "You're an ass."

"Slow."

"You outweigh me."

"The Hollowborn will consider that before attacking."

I kick his ankle. He almost loses balance. Almost.

He looks down. "Cheap."

"Alive." That earns me the smallest nod. Good.

Third round. I last longer. Thirty seconds. He catches me at the waist and redirects my momentum.

I hit the mat. Not hard. He controlled the fall. Of course. Protective even while beating me. Infuriating.

"Again." I say.

"Five minutes."

"That wasn't five."

"It was."

"Liar."

"No." I look toward the clock. Six minutes. Damn him.

"One more."