“I’m not fucking around, Raihn. Let me go.”
“I can’t do that, Oraya.”
“Why?”
It was shockingly earnest—a wrinkle between her brows and everything. She took another small step, gaze never leaving mine. It was a throwing knife of a word, already drenched in her blood. “Why?”
It struck me harder than it should have.
It was a bigger question, I knew—we both knew—than the single word. Bigger than two people in this hallway. It was a why did you betray me? question, spoken with the same devastating tone as when she’d hurled the reality at me in Vincent’s wing: You killed my father.
I could practically see the accusation in her eyes. No, more than that—an observation. Because like always, she saw right through me.
Why?
Because if I let you go, I’m committing treason against my own throne.
Because if I let you go, I’ll have no choice but to fight against you out there.
Because if I let you go, you become my enemy in earnest.
And I can’t kill you, princess. I’ve tried. I can’t.
Too many damned words. Too much honesty.
I settled for, “You know why, Oraya. I’m not done with you.”
A sliver of the truth, mixed in with the goad: Come on. Fight me.
I wanted her to fight. I’d missed seeing that in her. I’d been begging her for this for weeks.
I raised my sword. She did the same. The Nightfire danced with her every breath, rising with the hatred in her face.
Then her gaze rose. Eyes widened.
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see a lithe female form with outstretched featherless wings rushing towards me, sword drawn.
Jesmine. You don’t forget the face of someone who spent hours torturing you.
I barely dodged her attack, countering, our weapons clashing together. She’d drawn blood, her blade slicing open my left shoulder, where I’d been a little too slow to dodge. A stupid mistake.
She moved like a dancer, well-trained, elegant, unemotional. Her expression was focused, calm as the surface of a winter pond beneath the marks of battle—dirt, blood, scorched burns.
She glanced at Oraya, and I made the mistake of doing so, too—a stupid distraction at a critical moment. Jesmine’s next strike was to kill.
“Stop!” Oraya’s voice cut through the steel and chaos. “Stand down.”
Jesmine’s face contorted in confusion.
Oraya stepped closer, a sneer at her lip. “He’s mine, Jesmine. Stand down. Get to the others.”
I wouldn’t hurt Oraya, but I had none of the same affection for Jesmine. When she hesitated, baffled by her queen’s order, I seized the opportunity.
I could barely even regulate the new depths of my power now—I didn’t even have to call the Asteris before it danced at the edge of my blade. Jesmine was good, good enough to dodge despite her distraction, good enough to barely redirect the swing of my blade with hers—but the force of it sent her flying across the hall, her body crumpling in the ruined stone.
She’d barely fallen before Oraya was on me.
I felt her coming because of the Nightfire—that telltale buzz in the air a split second before she ran at me.
I could’ve killed her. Could’ve turned just enough to levy a blast of Asteris strong enough to pull her flesh from her bones. Instead, I had to take that extra precious moment just to make sure I’d reeled it in, holding myself back before I blocked her.
It put us on equal footing, and Oraya seized on that opening.
It had been weeks now since she’d fought, but if that break in practice hurt her, she didn’t show it. If anything, the pent-up energy seemed to fuel her every strike.
Still… so much was the same.
We fell into our steps like a well-practiced dance, the intensity of every move turned up double, triple what it was months ago. Our magic, her Nightfire and my Asteris, surrounded us like thickening clouds, light and darkness, heat and cold. Every strike I blocked reverberated through my entire body, despite Oraya’s small size—she threw that much force into each one. And she was quick, forcing me to strain to keep up with her.
She was so good. I honestly couldn’t help but admire it.
And yet, neither of us drew blood. The Nightfire collecting around her sword did its work on me, yes, but each of her lunges were half-measures, making shallow cuts if they got past my blocks.
Still, she was fast. Too fast. Faster with each blow, like she was letting go, losing control.
The Nightfire grew brighter and brighter.
Three strikes, the last one so fast I couldn’t dodge it, pain snaking across my chest—a line from my shoulder to my hip.