Page 38 of Emylia

The crowd gasped. My stomach clenched impossibly tighter.

Maalikaihadbeen holding back.

The teasing slash he’d started with hadn’t been random. The change in his fighting style hadn’t been accidental either. It was all part of an elaborate trap. A carefully crafted, methodical attack designed to study, learn and to tire his opponent.

And it was working.

Thrainn was frustrated. His expression, once composed, was lined with something sharper. Something unhinged. His attacks became less controlled, each one born of sheer frenzied desperation rather than strategy.

A nefarious spark reflected in Maalikai’s eye, burning with the fire of a thousand suns. I started to question if he waspossiblya descendant of Noctharis, God of War and Darkness.

Without a doubt, I knew this was all for show, Maalikai was playing with my uncle. The younger man faked left—then spun, moving with a speed that turned him to shadow. He was a blur of steel and motion, untouchable and lethal. Thrainn barely parried his attacks, his knees buckling from the force of the blows yet Maalikai wasn’t even breathless.

Sebastian exhaled beside me, voice a whisper. “What. The fuck. Was that?”

I didn’t answer. I barely continued to breathe.

Thrainn’s advantage was slipping.

Maalikai knew it.

Thrainn new it.

Anyone watching the fight could clearly see how fucked their chief was.

A bead of sweat rolled down my uncle’s temple, his chest rising and falling in laboured breaths. He was strong. Unyielding. But strength wasn’t everything.

Fighting wasn’t about brute force alone. It was about using your strengths to your advantage and your opponents weaknesses against them. Thrainn had been relying on his brute strength for far too long.

Maalikai saw it.

And he used it.

He lunged, each strike pressing forward, faster and impossibly faster, closing in, stealing control of the fight. Maalikai wielded his blade like he wasindisputablya direct descendant of Noctharis. Thrainn struggled to block the blows, Maalikai’s skills far surpassing his own. He closed in, stealing the advantage within seconds.

Thrainn struggled to keep the pace up. His movements were slow, barely blocking the series of attacks Maalikai threw at him, never relenting, not even for a second.

The momentum was his.

The match was his.

He just needed to take it.

Thrainn looked defeated, he was about to lose, and he knew it. His expression confirmed it—the sharp, flickering moment of realization. When their profiles turned, I saw it etched in their eyes. The resignation in Thrainn’s, the victory in Maalikai’s

The fight was over.

The only question now?

Would Thrainn accept it?

Or would he go out in a blaze of glory?

Maalikai raised his sword, preparing to swing his blade in a perfect arch, delivering what would be the final blow. I was on my feet in a heartbeat, taking a compulsive step forward. Only seconds from victory, Maalikai’s gaze collided with mine.

All the air was sucked from my lungs. An ethereal calm ebbed its way through me. My body felt serene and wired at the same time, and the universe clicked in place as if his soul recognized mine. My lips parted, but no sound came out.

Blade inches from Thrainn’s throat, Maalikai faltered, his sword almost coming to a visible stop in midair. It was only for a split second, but that was all the opening Thrainn needed. My eyes flicked to my uncle, and I could see the single-minded focus of a victory within reach.

---