Page 89 of Black Wing and Shadows
He came at me hard, all muscle and speed, his blade swinging in a brutal arc meant to rattle me early. I caught it, steel jolting up my arm, but I held ground. The small crowd around us roared louder, sensing the grudge.
I ducked under his next strike and drove in low, slashing for his ribs. He twisted away, fast, shoving his shoulder into me and knocking me back a step. The mat thudded under my boots as I steadied.
“Come on,” he taunted, eyes glinting. “I thought you wanted this.”
I forced air through my nose, anger sharpening into focus. No wild swings. No losing control. He wanted me reckless. Not this time.
We circled, blades flashing. He feinted high, came in low—I caught it, sparks biting from steel. My knee shot up, clipping his thigh, and he hissed.
“Better,” he muttered, low enough only I heard. Then his blade snapped forward, nicking across my arm. The sting burned, shallow but humiliating.
“Stay tight!” Lili shouted from the edge.
I tightened my stance, parried another strike, then lunged. My blade caught his side—shallow, but enough to leave a mark. His grin faltered.
The crowd noise swelled. Even Gile had leaned forward slightly, arms crossed.
Asmoth snarled, shoving harder, his strikes faster, heavier. My arms shook under the force, but I met him blow for blow, refusing to give ground. My pulse thundered, every ounce of me screaming that I couldn’t lose again. Not here. Not to him.
We locked blades, faces inches apart, breath harsh. His voice dropped, venom low. “You’ll never belong here, Blackcreek. You’re just blood with a name.”
Rage flared white-hot. I twisted hard, ripping my blade free, and slammed my elbow into his chest. He stumbled, hit the mat, and I went with him, pinning his wrist with my knee and pressing the edge of my blade across his throat.
The gym roared around us, but all I saw was his face, twisted with fury.
“Tap,” I snarled.
For a breath, he didn’t. His muscles bunched under me, teeth clenched, eyes daring me to push harder. Then, with a hiss, his hand slapped the mat.
I shoved off him, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. The crowd’s noise surged into a roar. Asmoth sat up, rubbing his throat, smirk crawling back onto his face though it looked thinner now.
“Enjoy it while you can,” he muttered, low enough only I caught.
Not just a rematch. Not just a fight. A warning.
“Next call—Braegon. Match—Arkwright,” Gile announced, his voice cutting over the noise of the gym.
A ripple of energy went through the mats. Beau was an Infantry first-year cadet, who also helped save my life, carrying me down the mountain. And everyone knew Zane—tall, dangerous, his temper a blade in itself.
The two stepped forward, blades in hand, facing each other across the mat.
Beau dipped his head once. Respect, not mockery. “Let’s see what the infamous Braegon can do.”
Zane’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t a smile. “Try to keep up.”
“Go!” One of Gile’s assistants announced.
They clashed fast—Zane pressing hard, his movements sharp, relentless. Beau held, blocking, absorbing the hits with steady precision. He fought like a wall—firm and unshaken—while Zane fought like a storm—driving and circling.
The crowd gathered closer, drawn in by the rhythm—steel meeting steel, boots scraping, the thud of impacts as neither gave ground. Beau shifted suddenly, sweeping low. Zane jumped, barely clearing it, then countered with a slash that grazed Beau’s shoulder. Beau only grinned, blood beading. “Not bad.”
Zane’s eyes flicked, narrowing, and he drove forward harder, blade flashing in quick arcs. Beau blocked two, ducked the third, and shoved him back with his shoulder. The mat thudded under their boots.
“Strong,” Beau said between breaths, “but you fight angry.”
That landed sharper than any strike. Zane’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicked toward where I stood at the edge of the mat.
The fight raged on—Zane hammering, Beau holding, neither faltering. Sweat slicked their arms, breath ragged, but still neither tapped.
