Page 110 of Spar of Hearts

“Why does it matter? It’s blade to blade. Strength is only the half of it.”

“No blades allowed either,” the Elf said, tone flat.

Icy dread crept up Anya’s spine as realization hit.

This wasn’t swordplay.

This was fisticuffs.

Roderick pulled her aside. His strong fingers pressed into her arm, making her wonder exactly what else he could do with them.

She shook her head. Now was not the time for fantasy. They had a prize to win, and it wouldn’t be as easy as she thought. They were two of the finest swords masters in Valeria, not bar brawlers.

“I can do this,” Roderick whispered. “I can win.”

“You heard her, this isn’t swordplay. You can’t possibly win against Weres. They have to be twice as strong as you. We could steal the book, or rip out the page! By the time he notices, we’ll be—”

“Anya.” He held her gaze. “I need you to trust me. I can’t do this unless you trust me.”

The conviction in his voice did her in.

“Fine,” she muttered.

“That’s my girl,” he crooned, flashing his fangs at her. Just as quickly, he retracted them and turned to the woman.

“Roderick Bryson, Were,” he declared. The woman scrawled his name down with a wrinkled hand, then dipped the quill back in the ink pot.

“Go ahead. We’ll be starting shortly.”

The hungry shouts and cheers became crystal clear as the door thudded shut behind them. Anya blinked through the haze of peppermint smoke.

“Sven! Sven! Sven! Sven!”

“Give me ten more on Sven!”

They watched two male Elves—stags, as they learned them to be called—enter a roped-off ring in the center of the basement. Mage lights sat atop wrought iron sconces. Slivers of moonlight leaked through cracks near the top of the stone walls. Folk drank while leaning or standing beside high tables, with tops made from spent barrels.

“Ladies and gentleman, does and stags, it’s time for the final stag round! It’s down to Morel Fenn of the east coast clan, and our reigning champion, Sven Lund of the river clan!”

“Knock ‘em dead, brother!”

“Don’t pull your punches! Antlers grow back!” a Were hollered.

Morel unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it into the crowd. A doe caught it and waved to him. Sven did the same, eliciting a clamor of folk from the other side.

“Same rules as before. No magic, no biting, no antler-grabbin’, and nothing below the belt. Legs are game.”

Both stags nodded, their antlers mere inches from one another, eyes deadlocked.

The ringmaster stepped back, raising both arms straight up.

“Ready?”

“Set!”

“Fight!”

The clatter of clashing antlers filled the room as the two stags grappled with their fists locked. Every muscle in their bodies strained against each other, shiny with sweat.