Page 48 of Cursed By Gold

"Breathe, Scarlet," Rose murmurs in a low aside, reading the tension in my clenched jaw. "Let your skill speak for itself. Don't give that lecher the satisfaction of seeing you flustered." Her tone hardens. "We have a chance here to rewrite our stories on our own terms. Don't squander it on petty grievances."

As infuriating as Greystone's presence is, Rose is right. This grand arena is our stage now to rewrite the stories that have been imposed upon us for far too long. No more being bound by the expectations of others. This is where we seize control of the narrative through undeniable feats of skill.

Pushing aside my rage, I pivot to survey our training options. Various racks of practice weapons line one wall, from sturdy staves to glinting blades. Hanging sacks and straw dummies provide targets for sharpening strikes.

A sly smile curves my lips as an idea takes shape. Without a word, I catch Rose's eye and jerk my chin towards the sparring circles, a silent challenge glimmering between us...

Rose's face lights up with wicked glee as she grasps my intent. "I thought you'd never ask." Without further preamble, she peels off her outer layers until she's clad in just a fitted tunic and leggings, all harsh lines and coiled readiness.

I mirror her actions, shrugging off my cloak and jacket until I'm similarly unencumbered. My fingers caress the worn leather wrappings on my palms and knuckles - earned through years of fighting, from alleyway brawls to carefully orchestrated strikes. This is my element, my truth laid bare.

Around us, the other competitors are splitting off to warm up in various ways - some stretching, others taking tentative swings with practice swords. But it's the stands that draw my eye as they begin filling with a steady trickle of spectators. I spot a section roped off specifically for scribes and royal reporters, quills at the ready to document our every move.

Rose murmurs, following my gaze. "Time to give them a real show, don't you think?" Her eyes glint with feral anticipation.

I grin fiercely back at her. “I’m ready. Don’t know what’s taking you so long." With that, we launch into motion.

Rose darts in first with a flurry of jabs and feints, her whole body a whirling dervish of controlled violence. I sway back,absorbing and deflecting her through sheer muscle memory and instinct honed over countless back-alley melees. When she overextends her left side, I seize the opening - ducking low and aiming a sweeping kick at her legs.

She leaps back with a breathless laugh. "You're getting sloppy in your old age, Marheart!" Rose taunts through a fierce grin.

A hot thrill rushes through me, all other concerns falling away as the world narrows to Rose, myself, and the primal dance of strike and counterstrike. We flow together in an intricate cadence, exchanging blows and parries in an ever-accelerating tempo. The exhilaration of battle singing in my veins drowns out everything - the murmurs of the crowd, Lord Greystone's presence, the weight of the tournament itself.

At some point, my back slams against a column with enough force to rattle my teeth. Rose's forearm presses against my throat as she bears down, her face flushed and eyes alight with the thrill of the fight. An explosive series of hits and blocks has left us both sucking in ragged breaths.

"Getting...sloppy...yourself," I gasp out through a grin, barely feeling the strain in my muscles. This is glorious.

Rose's expression abruptly sharpens and she eases back a fraction, her demeanor shifting subtly. I recognize that particular microexpression - a warning that I'm pushing things too far, drawing unwanted scrutiny. “I hope that worked out your anger because you need to cool it,” she whispers in my ear.

With an internal wince, I belatedly remember we are supposed to be maintaining an air of civility, not unleashing our full deadly skills. Fairy Godmother will be furious if we give too much away. We need to be careful to not do anything that could potentially connect us to the guild. I need to be more careful of the moves I use. Some are specific and could be recognized. I wasn’t paying close enough attention to make sure I avoided those.

Dragging in a steadying breath, I force my body to ease its coiled intensity, letting the frenzied high of combat bleed away into a more restrained looseness. Rose mirrors my shift seamlessly, our exchange slowing into something more akin to a formal sparring session.

I twirl the dagger in my hand, the familiar weight and balance grounding me as I face Rose across the sparring circle. My eyes glance to the king's opulent viewing box, where King Remme sits observing with an intense, calculated gaze. A flutter of nerves dances in my stomach as our eyes briefly meet, that same electric connection from our moonlit garden rendezvous reverberating through me.

I shake my head slightly, pushing aside the unbidden thought. Surely the king's scrutiny extends to all the competitors, not just me specifically. Yet...a treacherous part of me can't help replaying that surprisingly intimate conversation we shared, how he seemed to truly see me in a way no one else ever has. Get a grip, Scarlet. He's studying us as combatants, nothing more.

Before I can dwell further on the peculiar yearning his piercing stare sparks within me, Rose explodes into motion with a ferocious attack. She launches herself forward in a blistering flurry, dagger flashing as she rains down a blinding series of slashes and jabs. Instinct propels me to deflect her onslaught, my own dagger a mere blur as I absorb and redirect Rose's furious strikes in a whirlwind of parries.

The clashing of our daggers rings through the arena, the low murmurs of the thronging crowd fading into a muted backdrop as I immerse myself fully in the cadence of combat with Rose. Sweat beads along my hairline as I deflect her blistering combination of jabs and slashes, every fiber of my being narrowed to this primal ebb and flow of traded strikes. This lethal grace is my essence stripped bare - not the delicate noble's daughter, or the maid that my stepmother has forced meto become, but a tempered force of controlled ferocity normally sheathed in the shadows.

A sudden swell of raucous laughter from one of the nearby spectator sections catches my peripheral attention. My focus wavers just a hairsbreadth, gaze flicking towards the disturbance against my will. In that fractional moment, my eyes are instinctively drawn back to the king's box where he sits observing, posture erect and expression inscrutable as his penetrating stare finds and pins me amidst the whirlwind of motion.

Heat rises unbidden to my cheeks as every nerve ending thrills to his undisguised interest, his eyes seeming to pierce straight through my controlled facade into some deeper, unseen truth.

"Stay in the moment, Marheart!" Rose's bark cuts through the din as her dagger clips my forearm in a stinging graze. I barely avoid a more devastating strike, realizing with a jolt how dangerously distracted I've allowed myself to become.

With an inward curse, I redouble my efforts, raining down a blistering hail of attacks that has Rose rapidly backpedaling and struggling to keep pace. I can't afford such lapses, not here on this grand stage where the slightest misstep could undo everything. The weight of the king's lingering stare caresses over me like a physical touch, simultaneously thrilling and disquieting in its implacable judgment of my every minute tell.

Is he so inexplicably drawn to me? Or scrutinizing my defenses for weakness, for flaws to exploit? That nagging uncertainty forces me to throttle back the full extent of my lethal skills, even as some reckless part of me craves to let my unvarnished truth blaze forth before his discerning eyes.

In a momentary lull where we break apart, both breathing hard, I risk another furtive glance towards Remme's secluded viewing box. A tremor runs through me as his penetrating stare finds and holds me. He watches me with solemn, unwaveringfocus...and perhaps the barest glimmer of challenge sparking in his eyes.

A strange sense of giddy daring blossoms within me then, this defiant part of me that thrills at the unspoken invitation to unmask and bear truth before his discerning scrutiny.

Letting out a breathless laugh that startles even myself, I surge back into our lethal exchange with renewed determination.

The tempo of our dagger sparring accelerates into a fever pitch, the entire world narrowing to the dizzying cyclone of metal clashing against metal. I relish each stinging blow, each jarring impact sending adrenaline-fueled euphoria blazing through my veins. This is who I am in truth - uncompromising lethality sheathed in grace, undaunted by kings or circumstance.

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