Page 65 of The Princess Knight
When everyone returned to the stands, Kordislaen walked before them once more. His dark eyes canvassed the crowd until they locked onto Clía.
“Fionnáin. Please step forward.”
She did as he said, taking her blade with her.
“A broadsword. Practical choice. Yet where is your armor?” There was a taunting edge to his voice, but she held firm.
“I chose not to wear any,” she replied, rolling her shoulders back. He didn’t need to know how her heart raced.
“And you thought that was a good idea?” he asked.
She kept her head high, refusing to let his dissatisfaction affect her. “Armor would slow me down. I want to be my best for the trial.”
“I’ll let you see how grave a mistake you made on your own.” She felt his dismissal like a blow. A small flutter of chuckling passed through the class. A response rose in her, but she bit it back. “Since you are so confident in yourself, I’ll have you go first. And once you fail, youwillbe sent home.”
Clía rubbed the hem of her shirt between her fingers, letting the familiar texture ground her. “I won’t fail,” she said. Not an argument. A statement of fact.
Kordislaen’s eyes narrowed. “We’ll see.” He turned to the restof the warriors. “You may choose your opponent from the class. Knowing how to fight is one thing, but it is vital to know what fights to pick.” His eyes sized her up. “Might I recommend you choose someone who you stand a chance against?”
She ignored his jibe and faced her choices. Ronan nodded to her when their eyes met. Choosing him would be expected—probably smart. She knew his moves, his ticks. It might impress Kordislaen if she won against him. Her gaze traveled farther. She looked over various daltas: MacCraith, Kían, Teafa. Her eyes skimmed over Niamh—this was not the time to risk a repeat of her first trial, no matter how tempted she was—and she finally settled on the light-haired prince beside her.
“I choose Domhnall,” Clía declared.
Kordislaen raised a hand, summoning the prince over. “Lochlainn, please join us.”
Domhnall walked toward them with a cocky gait. He wore shining silver armor with not a scratch on it. It was a statement, reminding everyone that he was a prince.
Clía couldn’t wait to ruin it.
“Get into ready positions. You may start when I give the word.”
She and Domhnall walked into the center of the arena as Kordislaen returned to the stands. Clía bounced on her knees a few times, testing their looseness. Giving one last look to the warriors, she saw Ronan watching her intently. He raised a brow at her choice of opponent before giving her a smile. Her hand slid up on the hilt of her blade, securing her grip.
The prince, the man she’d come here to win over, stood ten feet across from her. He flipped his sword in the air, catching itwith one hand. From the murmuring coming from the stands, she knew his easy movements awed more than just her, but she didn’t let his posturing get in her head. He was acting as he always did in front of those he wanted to impress. He was a peacock revealing its plumes.
“Begin,” Kordislaen’s voice called out.
Domhnall sent her a courtly smile, as if they were at a ball, about to dance like they had hundreds of times before. “So, how do you wish to do this?”
“With no talking, preferably.”
He smirked. “That might be a challenge for you.” She wanted to lunge at him if only to wipe that obnoxious look from his face.
“Let’s just get started,” she said sharply, hoping they were far enough from the crowd that their words were hidden by the wind.
“If you insist,” he said, ever the gentleman, before lunging. He swung as if to go for her left side, but the droop in his shoulders gave him away. He was trying to trick her. She dodged left, and thankfully avoided being impaled. The look of surprise on his face as she deftly met his blade with her own filled her with energy.
He was still underestimating her, even after all this time. Good. She was relying on that.
The prince stumbled but regained his footing. She stood, grounding her stance.
When he lunged again, she saw it coming. As his sword turned toward her, she dodged fluidly under the blade—a move she would have stumbled through in her armor.
Domhnall waited for her this time. She leaped forward,knowing the attack would be easily defended. The grating clash of metal on metal stung in her ears.
They parried blow for blow, neither gaining the advantage, but neither losing ground. With each impact, she felt the vibrations radiate down her arm but kept swinging. Her hands shook. Her jaw ached against her clenched teeth. But for each harried breath she drew, Domhnall struggled as well. The smugness on his face faded into annoyance, then faded again into deep concentration. His hair was a mess. Sweat blossomed on his brow. And each time their blades crashed together, she was met with less resistance.
Finally, she jumped backward, giving them both a reprieve. She thought she could wear him down and try to win that way, but that was boring. She wanted to be exceptional.
