Page 56 of Nansar
"You are the newcomer," she said. A statement, not a question.
"I am." I fought to keep my voice steady, to project confidence I didn't feel.
"Your mate is strong," a younger woman observed, her eyes kind.
I didn't trust myself to respond, so I simply nodded and turned my attention to the arena.
Across the field, Nansar stood among the other warriors. He'd removed his vest—apparently fighting bare-chested was the custom—and despite my anxiety, my breath caught in my throat. Morning sunlight poured over him like liquid gold, illuminating every sculpted plane of his chest and shoulders, every line of hard-earned muscle. When he rolled his shoulders back and stretched his arms overhead, I watched the flex and pull of his body with an appreciation that felt almost indecent given the circumstances.
He was magnificent. Powerful. Dangerous in a way that made heat pool low in my belly, and my pulse quickened for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
One of the males near him gestured in my direction, saying something I couldn't hear. Nansar's gaze found mineacross the distance—just for a heartbeat—and in that brief connection, I saw the warrior beneath the calm exterior. Then he turned back to the male and responded with words I couldn't make out, but his tone carried a warning that made the other man retreat a step.
They were testing him. Challenging him. Trying to find his breaking point.
And I despised every second of it.
"Your mate has fire in his blood," the older female beside me observed, approval warming her voice. "That is good. He will need it."
My fingers tightened on the railing until my knuckles went white. "He shouldn't have to do this."
"Perhaps not," she agreed quietly, her gaze distant. "But he does it anyway. That is what makes him worthy."
I had no answer for that. I could only watch as Nansar continued his preparations, his movements fluid and controlled, every gesture speaking of coiled strength and deadly grace. Even now, on the precipice of violence, he was breathtaking.
And I was absolutely terrified.
An older warrior stepped forward, his scarred face placid as he surveyed the gathered males. When he barked orders, the sound cracked through the air like a whip, and my stomach twisted into knots as he gestured sharply, dividing the warriors into groups.
Oh God. Oh no.
Nansar's team—if the cruel joke of it could even be called that—was composed of smaller males. Younger ones. Their builds were leaner, less battle-hardened than the warriors being assembled in the opposing groups. The other teams? Stacked with the largest, most intimidating fighters I'd seen yet, all rippling muscle and scarred flesh.
"This isn't fair," I breathed, my fingers digging into the wooden railing hard enough to splinter.
The female beside me made a soft, knowing sound. "Fair is not the point."
Before I could form a response, another warrior emerged carrying an armload of weapons. Real weapons. My breath caught as he distributed blades that caught the sunlight and threw it back in wicked gleams, shields battered from previous battles but still solid and heavy enough to break bones.
My heart slammed against my ribs. "They're going to fight with those? Actual blades?"
"Of course." The female's tone suggested surprise. "How else would they prove themselves?"
"Games," I said, the word bitter as ash on my tongue. I watched Nansar test the weight of his blade, his beautiful face unreadable, and wanted to scream. "You call these games."
The Navy had called SERE training a game too—survival, evasion, resistance, escape. I'd volunteered for it, pushed myself through scenarios designed to break you down mentally and physically, to strip away everything but your core. They'd called it a game, a training exercise, even as instructors played enemy combatants, and I endured all the cuts and bruises and psychological warfare that entailed.
But we'd used simulation weapons. Blanks. Rubber knives. Props.
Even in war games—the most dangerous, realistic combat scenarios the Navy could devise—the weapons weren't real. We'd fire paint rounds, use laser tag systems, anything to simulate lethality without actually achieving it. The goal was to train, to learn, to improve and survive to fight another day.
Not to bleed.
Not to maim.
Not to carve pieces from each other for entertainment.
Here, they handed out sharpened steel like party favors.
