Page 83 of The First Scar
It was such a small thing. Thread and tension. A pattern that meant nothing to anyone who wasn't looking for it. But I saw itfor what it was—a crack. A quiet rebellion stitched into the very tool he used to hunt people like me.
His soul was still chained and bound, but his hands had chosen a different knot.
My eyes stayed on those hands. On the quiet treason of fingers that had been trained to bind, choosing instead to learn.
A dangerous, unwanted shift stirred deep within.
Then Kaelen walked in. His voice cut through the noise.
"Eryndor. Amaria." He stopped at the edge of the ring, pale eyes moving between us with clinical interest. "Time for a rematch."
My hands stilled on the dummy. "Now?"
"Now." That smile again. "I want to see it again. The way your marks reacted to each other. We need to understand what we're working with."
Research.That's what we were to him. Data points. Variables to be tested.
I looked at Eryndor. He'd gone still, jaw rigid, but he didn't argue. Didn't look at me. Just picked up his longsword and walked toward the ring.
The others drifted to the edges—Maxx with his arms crossed, Serenya's worry pinching the corners of her eyes, Dreadscale materializing near the far wall like he'd been waiting for this.
Wonderful. An audience for my next disaster.
I stepped into the ring. Drew my daggers. Voidbringer and Dawnrender ringing in harmony as I released them. At least my blades were happy to get in the ring with him.
Eryndor stood across from me, longsword drawn, his face giving nothing away.
And Kaelen. Observing. Always observing.
"Begin," he said.
The first clash rang through the cavern—steel on steel, hard enough to taste.
He struck hard. I'd give him that. Each blow landed with enough force to rattle my teeth, to send shockwaves up my arms. Dirt kicked up between us and coated my tongue. But—
He was too far away.
It showed on the second exchange. The third. His longsword met my daggers with brutal precision, but his feet stayed planted where a killing blow would never land. He wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting to keep me at arm's length.
I closed the distance. He gave ground.
Again. I pushed forward, angling for his ribs, his flank, anywhere steel could meet flesh. He retreated, boots scraping across the floor, putting space between us. Every time I got close enough to matter, he was already gone—circling out, resetting, that maddening distance restored like he'd measured it to the inch.
What the hell?
"You're backing up," I said between strikes.
"Footwork," he said. "Perhaps you've heard of it."
I lunged. He sidestepped—not into the counter, butaway. His blade snared mine in a parry that pushed me back instead of pulling me close.
The crowd muttered. Sweat stung my eyes and I blinked it away. I heard Maxx's whistle, Brannick's confused grunt. They saw it too. The Crownforged, the King's perfect weapon, was fighting like a male trying not to touch a live flame.
My blood heated.
I came at him harder. Faster. A flurry of strikes designed to close the gap, to force him into the space between us where real fighting happened. My boots slid on loose stone. His blade held mine and the impact sang up through my wrists, my elbows, my shoulders. He met each one—absorbed, deflected, redirected—but always with that maddening distance. Always with his body angled away, his chest turned, like he was protecting something.
Or protecting himself fromsomeone.
