“They dismembered themselves.”
I smiled. “Nothing motivates humans faster than fear. It is a lesson your father adopted to its fullest extent. I have lived in fear. It has not motivated me to join the Mufsids or Urabi and march into a battle they may very well win, but at the cost of my dismemberment.”
I folded his hand over his heart and stepped away. “I am not a coward any more than you are a savior.”
Arin didn’t move his hand for a long minute. “How very eloquent. I almost believe you.”
He stood, and I caged my breath. If someone’s sword ever brought this man to his knees, they would never bring him low. His power did not come from magic or status, but from an unassailable sense of self.
It might be the only thing I hated more than his bloodline.
Arin tipped my chin up, waiting until I stopped glaring at his forehead to speak. “You said you revolt me. You do, but not for the reasons you think.”
A strand of his hair slid against his cheek, the silk of it sending a shiver of unease along my spine.
“I do not think it is fear motivating you at all. I could understand you, then. A cornered beast will lash out to protect itself. But you…”
His hand moved to my jaw in an unstoppable motion, turning my head to his. I could see every shade of blue in his pale eyes, count the silver lashes curling around them. I was caught fast in his hold.
“You are a creature of pure spite. You would not react out of fear, but out of fury. I think daily of chaining you to a wall and seeing which you would attack first—me, or the wall.” His voice was low, threaded with… curiosity? No, it couldn’t be that. Endeavors to unravel my identity nonewithstanding, Arin seemed to find me as noteworthy as a blunt axe.
I grabbed his arm, digging my fingers into his coat. If he made one more move, I would strike him in his unprotected throat.
“You. Definitely you.”
“I almost believed you, Suraira. Almost. But you forgot one thing.”
He moved a curl from my cheek. There it was again—the flash of curiosity.
“You gave me your name without asking anything in return.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two weeks before the Champions’ Banquet, my magic continued to pose an intractable obstacle.
Arin wanted it to work. He had assured me on numerous occasions how efficiently death would find me if I competed against the other Champions without my magic’s help. To this end, our trainings escalated. In intensity and quantity.
On the sixth day until we were to leave for Lukub, I entered the training center, winding my braid into a knot atop my head. I sensed the wrongness in the air immediately. My apprehension rose at the sight of the day’s tools scattered carelessly in front of the trunk.
Arin threw a familiar dagger—Dania’s dagger, from the war room—upward and caught it. He did it again, catching the hilt at each descent.
“What’s wrong?”
He kept tossing up the dagger. I picked up the tools, trying to remember how he liked to sort them. Did the three-pronged lance go after the spear or hammer?
When Arin’s silence lengthened, I rubbed the furrow above my nose and said, “Why do you insist on torturing yourself?”
That caught his attention. He closed his hand around the dagger’s handle. “Torturing myself.” The tone itself, thin as a thread and dripping in condescension, should have warned me away.
“I know what you do when you disappear to the surface. The Mufsids and Urabi have claimed lives all over the kingdoms. Evaded your most capable soldiers. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? I’m your bait. Let them be lured instead of constantly giving chase.”
Arin’s humorless laugh echoed. “My bait whose magic could not induce a bird to flight.”
I clenched my teeth. “I’m trying.”
His dark mood was a tangible thing, whipping through the training center and leaving tattered trails in its wake. “No one can say you haven’t given it all you have. It is only a shame all you have amounts to nothing.”
Engaging him in this state wouldn’t help anything. Arin could so easily chisel his ice into unbearable cruelty, cutting those in his way open from stem to stern. I couldn’t predict it. Hanim’s cruelty was artless, blunt, fashioned for hard and fast impact. I liked to think I was made of a hardier fiber, but it wasn’t a theory I wanted to test.
Before I could leave, the door on the other side of the training center opened. Sefa and Marek spilled inside, in the middle of a heated argument.