Page 165 of The Jasad Crown

I quirked a brow. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

Picking up the sword, I raked a quick glance over the crowd. They had risen to their feet, conversations faltering into a thick silence across the cliffside.

“I hope you fare better than you did in Mahair,” I said.

“Play without cheating and I might.” Arin finally picked up the sword he’d left to collect dust, and I grinned.

“I won’t need my magic to put you on your back.”

Catching Sefa’s knowing stare over Arin’s shoulder, I flushed a shade similar to the pomegranate on the back of Marek’s shirt. Arin could have easily replied thathehadn’t needed magic to put me onmy back, but then again, he probably knew how to take a firmer hand with his lust.

Arin twirled his sword once and beckoned me. Ah. He wanted to give them a show.

I pretended to crouch to tie my boot and scooped a pile of dirt and rocks. Springing to my feet, I flung it at him and took the opening of his momentary distraction to ram into him at a dead run.

However, I had done this twice previously, and Arin was prepared. The bastard managed to twist us around at the last second. In a flash, our positions were reversed, my back against his chest, the sword pressing into the skin beneath my chin.

The scent of rain and ink tickled my nose, achingly Arin, before his breath brushed against the side of my head. “Is this all you have to offer me?” Tight against him, I could count every beat of his heart, pounding inside his chest.

I kissed the edge of the sword, feather-light, as gold and silver gleamed in my eyes. The second most dangerous thing I had ever kissed. The first tightened his hold behind me.

The ground beneath Arin quaked.

The Commander pitched forward, momentarily unsteady as the cliffside shook. I slipped under the sword and grabbed Arin’s collar, yanking him to me.

“Cheating again,” Arin murmured, but there was laughter in his voice. I was using my magic, and for the first time, it did not draw a veil of dread over him.

We fought for years. Centuries. Reality passed around us, but it could not penetrate through us. In a space separate from time, our swords clashed with the music of a ballad. Our bodies moved around each other like stars voyaging across the night, permanently aligned. Not a single drop of blood was shed, because the truth was the mightiest force between us: the next time we aimed to hurt the other, it would be real. It would be his sword at my neck ifmagic-madness swept me where no one could reach; it would be my dagger in his heart if he betrayed me.

Arin maneuvered me against the side of the mountain, his sword inches away from the soft side of my belly. He braced his elbow by my head, the curve of his arm hiding my face from the other Jasadis. “You are out of training,” he said. “Use your magic.”

I tried to catch my breath, determined to spew a variety of outraged denials. I may not have been able to train in the mountains, but I hadn’t needed to. I was a better fighter than everyone here, and according to the Alcalah, better than the best of the other kingdoms.

My chest deflated. Out of training, I might still be better than everyone, but I wasn’t better than him.

He didn’t want me to lose in front of the Urabi, but they would know if he threw the fight. Both scenarios reflected poorly on their Malika.

“This does not count as cheating,” I warned. I flicked my gold-and-silver gaze to his, elated when Arin didn’t flinch. If anything, he drew closer, as if caught in the tide of the colors swirling in my eyes.

Too caught to notice the weight of my fist—tripled under my magic—slamming into the side of his head.

Arin shook his hair out, arching a taunting brow as he flipped his sword. I hid my grin, vigilant of the attention on us. I still had a limited range of what I could do with my magic; I lacked the intuitive connection most Jasadis developed in their adolescence. I hadn’t learned any tricks in classes or studied magical strategies with my tutors. Hanim’s focus had been entirely devoted to releasing my magic, not teaching me how to use it once freed.

Still, I learned quickly, and my time in the Gibal had not been without its lessons.

I pressed the tip of my index finger to a crack in the ground. Fire burst like a gushing river and raced toward Arin’s boots. The Jasadischeered as Arin twisted out of the fire’s path. It leapt, hopping in the fractures of the dried ground, molten veins winding tighter around him.

A screech sent the Jasadis to the ground as Niseeba swooped low, the flap of her wings extinguishing half of the flames. Her shadow crossed Arin like a protective caress, and I scowled at the kitmer as she rejoined her younger siblings in the sky. Perhaps favoring Arin was her revenge for being nameddisaster.

With magic at the helm, the fight raced toward its inevitable finish. I could have snapped Arin’s bones like a stick of bosomat. I could have melted his tongue into a thick syrup down his throat.

For the first time, I understood how he could look at magic and see more than another tool. What sword could have stopped me? What mortal weapon might have slowed me down?

I pressed the tip of my sword to his throat.

“Don’t move.”

The fire snaked in fluid lines around us. Even with his chin tilted back and a knife digging into the delicate skin of his throat, Arin’s composure never faltered.

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