Page 55 of Cursed Shadows 1

Mine.

That’s all he could think back then, with all those lustful gazes on her. So he made a point to mark her then—claim her.

Nari has something. A way about her. Her unabashed and bold tricks. It gets attention. It got his. And it’s held it ever since.

12

the night I challenged him

††† TEN YEARS EARLIER †††

The strings on Eamon’s shirt are undone, and with the purple wine stains on his full lips, he looks every bit the accomplished seductor as he leans back on a pile of combat bags (sacks stuffed full of preserved, dehydrated pixies).

Eamon uses those discarded-on-the-grass beating bags like a cushy wall as he reclines under the moonlight, and I use him much the same way, with my spine leaned against the firmness of his chest, and his chin pressing into the crown of my head.

Laziness has us in its tender grip this night.

Beneath the white glow of our beloved moon, we bask like a pair of juvenile dragons that found a delightful sunspot.

From here, we watch the fights—the sparring—at this unofficial gathering of ours.

Some dokkalves come to lessons with us light ones. Only one lesson is shared under the safety blanket of the night, otherwise the dark males would of course burst into flames should they come to a day lesson.

So every third night, we share that one lesson of the stars.

This night is not one of them.

It’s not an official lesson, all this fighting going on around us. Somehow, dark and light came together here at midnight—and started to train. How that sparring came from the fruits and wines, I don’t know, but I can roll my eyes at a guess. Males see fighting mats and that’s all it takes for one to challenge another, for blood to spill.

And so, Eamon and I sit together and watch.

Absentminded, Eamon’s dark fingers spindle through the golden cuffs peppered through my loose waves. I’m sure he messes them up, but I hardly care, I care so much more about the honeywine Eamon and I share between us.

Andhim.

I care to focus on him.

Ahead, Daxeel squares off with a litalf who challenged him on the fighting mat. He toys with him in the idle, disinterested way he circles him, and in the lazy manner that he twirls a dupe dagger around and around his hand. The black dupe dagger’s coal-like edges are jagged, but it’s no longer than the length of my hand, and I decide that the litalf who stepped to him is a moron for underestimating it.

Their circling of each other finally comes to an end when Daxeel spins around so fast that, if I blinked, I would’ve missed it altogether. In that blink of a moment, he’s speared the dagger through the air.

The litalf flips to the side to avoid the hit. But it strikes him in the shoulder instead. The blade is enchanted of course, so all that comes from the fake wound is a couple of crimson beads before it falls to the mat.

It doesn’t hit the mat before Daxeel has thrown himself at the distracted litalf—and in one sweep of the leg, takes him off his feet.

He doesn’t take it any further than that. The message is clear as he presses his boot down on the litalf male’s neck and pauses. In battle, in a real fight, all he has to do is add just the right pressure with just the right angle, and the neck is snapped.

He wins this round, as he has won that last three since I got here.

Daxeel draws back.

I watch the ripple of his muscles beneath his leathers. Those fighting leathers that are so different to the ones our warriors wear, how the leather sticks to the tall dark male form, hugs every muscle, and completely blends in with the darkness. Almost looks like it’s painted on them.

The gleam of the moon puts me better at ease out here in the training fields. I can see them in the pearlescent light, see the dark ones tucked at roots of trees, sat on wooden boxes and crates, each pair of eyes cutting through the air like lethal swords. Some others fight on the mats. None mingle with us.

So many differences between our kinds, yet they are subtle.

The dark ones, who have taken over the tree-lined side of the field, where they can find shade from the direct light of the moon, are utterly still when they are sitting or standing, not fighting. Completely motionless, and I don’t think of statues, but frozen shadows deep in darkness, watching oblivious prey wander by.

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