Page 58 of The First Scar
The crowd parted. I stepped into the ring first, boots scuffed against packed earth. Eryndor followed a moment later, that polished blade held loose at his side, posture easy.
We faced each other across ten feet of torchlit ground, and the hall went silent.
I shifted into a side stance—left toward the Crownforged, right hand hidden. My fingers found the familiar grooves of the throwing star tucked against my forearm.
He was still adjusting his grip when I let it fly.
And it hit its target.
Right on his stupid. Perfect. Shiny. Sword. And dented it. Maxx burst out laughing and I grinned wildly. Maybe I liked him after all.
“Fighting dirty already, Scar-bearer?” Eryndor purred.
I lunged toward him, just to scare him a bit, but then I threw myself into a safety roll, shoulders making contact on the hard-packed ground, and passed right over my throwing star I'd hit his sword with—it magnetized back to the band on my forearm.
I popped up right in front of him and landed a left hook. His jaw cracked. The rebels went wild with cheers and Eryndor exhaled slowly out his nose as if he were trying to gain patience.
“I wasn’t aware there was another way to fight,” I retorted.
We circled each other—two predators measuring the distance between patience and violence.
"It shows." His gaze tracked down my stance—the loose grip, the weight on my back foot, the shoulder angled to hide my throwing hand. Reading me like a battle map. "Scrappy. Unrefined. Effective, I'm sure, against lesser opponents."
He moved then—not a strike, but a feint. He dipped his shoulder, baiting me to block high. I fell for it. My guard was still rising when his sword found the inside of my wrist. A precise, vibrating shock to the nerve cluster on my forearm. My fingers went numb instantly. My dagger clattered to the dirt. He stepped back, waiting. Let me pick it up. "Your grip is too tight," he noted. "Tension breaks. Fluidity survives." I snatched my blade from the ground, humiliated heat flushing my neck. I shook the feeling back into my hand.
"And yet." I matched his pace, letting my dagger catch the torchlight. "You're the one who lost me in those tunnels."
His nostrils flared.
"I let you go."
“Is that what you’re calling it?” I stepped closer, a smile blooming razor-sharp. “Because to me, it looked like you hesitated.” I paused to hold his gaze. “Soldier,” I taunted.
He took the bait and lunged. I sidestepped, letting his momentum carry him past, and brought my blade down toward his exposed flank. He spun, caught it, shoved me back. We traded blows—high, low, a thrust I barely deflected—the rhythm brutal and instinctive.
His eyes darkened as he closed the distance. "You fight like someone who learned in alleys."
"And you fight like someone who learned in a cage." I tilted my head, watching the words land. "All that perfect form. All thatpolish. Tell me, Crownforged—when's the last time you won a fight that wasn't already decided for you?"
His restraint slipped.
He came at me fast—faster than before. No more testing. No more measure. His sword was a blur of controlled fury and I scrambled to meet it, catching one strike, two, a third that nearly tore the sword from my grip. I swung wild, aiming for his temple. He ducked under it, hooked his ankle behind mine, and suddenly the world tilted. My back hit the ground. I gasped, but cold steel was already there—a sharp line against my pulse. He hovered over me, a trap of heat and tension.
"Careful," he murmured. "You might get the answer."
My breath hitched and his eyes dilated. The cavern had gone silent—or maybe the roaring in my ears had swallowed everything else. His breath came warm against my lips, uneven in a way his fighting hadn't been.
"Promises, promises." My voice dipped. "You talk like a male who thinks holding me down is the same as winning."
"And you talk like a female who's never been caught."
"I've been caught," I purred. "I just don't stay that way."
I hooked my heel behind his knee and torqued my hips, throwing my weight into the rotation. His balance broke—a flash of surprise crossed his face—and then we were rolling, dirt and limbs and steel until I came out on top, thighs pinned on either side of his hips, my blade pressed to the hollow of his throat.
His throat bobbed against the edge. "No," he said. "I don't imagine you do."
I should’ve moved. I should’ve taken the win and walked away. But I didn't. Beneath the adrenaline and the metallic tang of blood, a different rhythm took over—a pull my body recognized before my brain could name it.
