Page 154 of The Dark Lord's Guide to Dating

“Block!” he ordered.

I brought my daggers together and caught the sword in a shaky X-block. My arms trembled under the force, but I held on until I heard him call again.

“Disengage!”

I twisted, letting the construct’s momentum spin it off balance. For the next hour, he barked out instructions: how to parry, where to step, how to find an opening. The constructs improved with each round, and I fell more times than I cared to admit.

By the thirtieth—or maybe the hundredth—time I’d been disarmed, I lost it. “This is absurd!” I hurled a dagger at a far wall, where it bounced harmlessly to the ground. “I can’t win like this. I have real magic.”

Kazimir strolled over and picked up my fallen blade. “Magic that can be drained or negated. You need more than that to outlast the Hero’s Guild.”

“That doesn’t make your method any less futile,” I snapped.

He tossed the dagger at my feet. “Again.”

“No,” I said flatly, ignoring the sting in my arms and the bruises forming on my knees.

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and shadows darkened the room. “No?”

“You heard me.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m tired, I’m sore, and I’m getting nowhere with this. Either change your approach or I’m going back to bed.”

For a moment, I thought he might actually drag me back to the center of the room and force me. Then his expression softened with a grudging smile. “Finally.”

“Finally what?” I demanded.

“The fire. You’ve been too compliant. That’s not you.” He waved again at the construct. “This time, fight your way. No illusions of normal combat. Use what you have.”

I stared nervously at the lurching wooden figure. “You kept telling me not to rely on magic.”

“Show me what you’d do if your life truly depended on it. Then we’ll go from there.”

He stepped back, and two constructs came forward at the same time, swords raised. My palms prickled with sweat, but I swallowed my fear. If he wanted me to use my natural instincts, then I wouldn’t keep playing at this sword fight.

One construct swung high, the other low, forcing a choice I refused to make. Instead, I summoned a pulse of healing magic and channeled it into the daggers. Golden light flared along the blades, meeting the swords in a burst of sparks. Both constructs recoiled, as if stunned by the backlash of power.

I let out a sharp cry and cut into the nearest construct’s wooden shoulder. It split cleanly, splinters raining down. The second dove for me, but I ducked beneath its swing and drove my glowing daggers into its chest. It seized once, then collapsed.

Turning back, I saw the first attempt to raise its sword again—so I slashed and separated its head from its torso. Silence echoed against the cavern walls.

Kazimir observed me from the side. “That,” he said softly, “was impressive.”

I exhaled, chest heaving. “You told me to do whatever it took.”

He stepped forward, gaze flicking between me and the wreckage. “I did. Though I didn’t expect you to dismantle them so completely.” With a flick of his wrist, four more constructs rattled to life.

My blood felt like ice water. “Kazimir?—”

“Fight,” he said simply, and backed away.

I gritted my teeth. “I really hate you right now.”

“That’s fine,” he replied, crossing his arms. “Hate me, but stay alive.”

The constructs converged, each movement strange and unnerving. The first came at me with a sword overhead. I lifted my daggers, but the second came from behind. I was overwhelmed at once, weaving and blocking frantically. In seconds, I lost a dagger. One sword caught me across the back.

I expected searing pain and a spray of blood. Instead, the blow slammed me forward, leaving me breathless and aching but not severing me in two.

The weapons were blunted. Damn him for not telling me.

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