Page 37 of The Naga Lord's Pretty Little Mouse

“I do not expect centuries of skill,” he muses. “I expect you to learn.”

“And what, exactly, do you expect me to learn?” The sword spins once in my hand, grip adjusting as I step back into a ready stance. “How to serve as a more entertaining toy in your pit of bloodshed?”

Golden eyes narrow slightly, gleaming in the dim torchlight. “If you prefer the alternative, I could simply toss you back to the next pack of mercenaries that comes sniffing.”

My fingers twitch against the hilt.

He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Xirath steps forward, and despite every instinct screaming at me to stand my ground, my muscles tighten in wary anticipation.

“The arena is not merely bloodshed,” he says, voice dropping just enough to demand my attention. “It is discipline. It is strategy. It is knowing when to strike and when to bait.” His hand flicks toward my grip on the sword. “And it is not whatever that is.”

I roll my eyes but shift my stance as he moves to circle me, his presence pressing against me like a closing snare.

“There are only two outcomes in a fight, little mouse,” he continues, pacing slowly, measuring. “You win, or you die.”

A short laugh escapes me. “Dramatic.”

He moves fast.

One moment, he stands an arm’s length away. The next, his tail coils around my ankle, yanking my balance from beneath me.

The sword clatters against the stone as I crash onto my back, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.

Xirath crouches above me, his face calm, almost bored. “Was that dramatic?”

Fury surges, white-hot and relentless. I lash out, knee aiming for his ribs, but he’s already gone, already back on his feet before I can land a strike.

The tail releases me just as quickly, but the message lingers.

I shove myself upright, grabbing the discarded sword with a sharp motion. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Your enemy won’t wait for readiness.”

Gritting my teeth, I step back into stance. “Again.”

This time, when he moves, I anticipate the strike. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But enough that when his tail flicks toward my legs, I pivot instead of stumbling, steel flashing in retaliation.

A hum of approval, so faint I almost miss it, vibrates through the humid night.

“Better.”

Sweat beads along my brow as we continue, the movements shifting into something less punishment, more practice. I adjust to the weight of the sword, to the tension in my limbs as I react instead of merely enduring.

Xirath is merciless, relentless, but not careless. He tests. He watches. He waits to see what I do with the lesson.

The more we fight, the more I understand.

The sword is not just an extension of my body.

It is a promise.

A way to say, I am not prey.

The thrill of it licks against my ribs, dangerous and unfamiliar.

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