Page 28 of Warrior's Reign
Reign shut up. Whenever she talked, she lost focus, and Vykhan almost seemed to anticipate her moves. Even the false tells she scattered like candies.
She narrowed her eyes. There was no way he had vid from her academy days—Numar didn’t allow recordings. Did Vykhan’s mind just process the patterns of her strategy faster than she’d thought possible because of his age and experience?
He movedwithher. How the hell was he doing that?
Reign abandoned her preplanned strategy and began to mirror his movements, turning the trick on him. Block, attack. Circle, reassess. Emptying her mind of calculations, she allowed the energy of the fight to flow through her limbs. Gave her eyes and hands and feet authority—let go.
And when she did, they synced.
There, the slightest narrowing of his gaze as she flowed into a new rhythm. He changed, she changed with him.
“Very good,” he said softly, and for once she didn’t prickle at the implied condescension. There was none.
It felt familiar, an oft repeated dance, but she couldn’t quite pin down the deja vu. She didn’t try, banishing the thought that wanted to capture her attention; she’d analyze this match later. And analyze why he was even here when he should be off dealing with Ibukay’s business. There were seconds and thirds on shift whose job it was to run the guard through their paces.
It was then Vykhan began to move faster. It was then Reign realized he’d been holding back.
They were gathering an audience. Reign’s limbs recognized the subtle pattern of Vykhan’s Forms and between one move and the next she disarmed him, then leaped back, prepared for punishment.
She wasn’t disappointed.
Tossing her staff aside because she wouldn’t have it said she beat him because she was better armed, Reign defended herself from the flurry of strikes, her grin fierce.
When was the last time she’d felt this kind of exhilaration? Something had changed; his edge was still present, the subtle miasma of criticism, but he flowed with her. There was a quiet joy in the match, though she was certain the joy was all hers. Did he even feel joy? Did he feel anything but the satisfaction of beating someone he saw as inferior into the dust?
She wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction, not without a fight at least.
“Enough,” he said, and disengaged.
Her muscles obeyed, years of training taking over to halt her body even when her mind wanted to continue.
Vykhan regarded her. She waited in silence, for once having nothing goading to say. “Better,” he said finally. “I fail to see the purpose in grinning your opponent to their defeat, however.”
“That’s just the pleasure of getting in a few whacks, Vykhan,” someone called. “You were too soft on her this time. She can walk off the yard without a limp.”
Reign’s expression soured. “Right. I have conditioning.”
Vykhan shook his head. “I have an assignment brief for you. Come.”
* * *
His strides were impossibly long, and swift with the kind of sinuous grace she studied covertly and tried to emulate. Failed miserably, but give her time.
He entered his office and gestured for her to proceed him. Her spine tingled as if a predator loomed at her back. Reign strode towards his desk, a clear glass monstrosity absent of any clutter, and stood at parade rest, posture perfect.
He went around the desk but didn’t sit, instead studying her. Smooth expression, flat gaze. “You mock me.”
“Sir?”
Vykhan rested a hand on the desk, and the inset console came to life in standby mode. “Sit, Reign.”
“I would never sit in the presence of a superior, sir.”
She could do smooth and emotionless, too. She’d decided that going forward—kill him with kindness. Flawless conduct. He wanted respect? She would give himperfectrespect. Respect until he choked on it.
Too bad they couldn’t just work together on the field, it was the only place they seemed to get along even a little.
His voice changed. “Sit, Obe’shan.”
