Page 154 of The Orc's Captive Bride
He followed Baralt to the training area. The other Windrunners had stopped their bouts and were watching curiously.
Baralt pulled two practice blades from a weapons rack and tossed one to Khorrek. The weight was wrong, the balance off, but he adjusted automatically. He’d had years of training with whatever weapons were available.
“No rules,” Baralt said. “First blood or yield.”
“Agreed.”
They circled as he studied his opponent, looking for weaknesses, patterns.
Baralt moved like water, fluid and graceful. He was light on his feet. Quick. Faster than him but weaker.
He lunged, testing the other male’s skills. Baralt deflected the blow easily and smiled.
“You telegraphed the blow. Your shoulder dropped before you strike.”
He adjusted and attacked again. This time Baralt had to work for the parry.
“Better. But still too direct.”
They moved, circled, blades clashing. He was stronger and could overpower through sheer force, but Baralt was faster. He dodged and slipped away. It was like fighting smoke. Frustrating. Challenging.
And he found himself… enjoying it.
Because Baralt wasn’t trying to kill him. He wasn’t following orders. He wasn’t motivated by fear or obedience. He was playing.
When was the last time I played?
He pushed harder, testing his limits. He found openings, and exploited weaknesses. Baralt laughed, delighted.
“Yes! Now you’re fighting!”
They moved faster, blades singing. The watching Windrunners began to cheer, calling encouragement. Not taking sides, just enjoying the spectacle.
His Beast settled, content with the challenge. This was what fighting should be. Not brutality, not death, but skill and respect.
Baralt’s guard dropped slightly on the left and he saw an opening. He struck, fast and precise, and his blade stopped a hair’s breadth from Baralt’s throat.
First blood. Victory.
A moment of silence and then the Windrunners erupted, cheering and applauding. Baralt stepped back and bowed.
“Well fought, warrior. You honor us.”
He lowered his blade, breathing hard.
“You’re skilled.”
“As are you. Lasseran taught you well.”
“Lasseran taught me brutality. This was something else.”
“This was battle as art. As dance.” Baralt’s smile was genuine. “You have the foundation. The skill. Perhaps now you can learn the joy.”
Joy.
He turned the word over in his mind. He’d never associated fighting with joy or pleasure, only with survival. But tonight… Tonight he’d felt something different.
He caught movement from the corner of his eye and turned to see Thea standing at the edge of the training area, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed.
