Pinning me to the ground, a blade grazing my throat, and eyes like wildfire burning straight through me.
Romance? No.
Rage? Absolutely.
And something unspoken humming between us.
We're in the ruins of an old temple, dust swirling around us like smoke from a forgotten ritual. The air smells of sweat and stone, charged with heat and fury. The crowd blurs into the background, their roars distant, meaningless. It's just me and him now.
He moves like a storm—controlled chaos, sharp edges, too sure of himself. His first strike is fast, too fast, but I block it, barely. That smirk he gives me afterward? Infuriating.
"You're better than they said," he says, circling like I'm something he wants to unwrap, not destroy.
"I'm worse," I snap, before I launch into a spinning kick that cracks against his jaw.
He stumbles, touches his mouth where I hit him—then laughs. Actually laughs. What kind of enemy does that?
Every blow we trade is poetry in blood and breath. His blade slices my arm, my knuckles drive into his ribs. He's strong, precise—but he's holding back. Not out of mercy. He's enjoying this. Enjoying me.
And every time we clash—his hand locking around my wrist, my knee grazing his side, his breath catching near my ear—I feel it.
He leans in during a grapple, close enough for our lips to almost touch. "What's your name?" he murmurs, like this is a dance, not a duel.
I don't answer.
Instead, I twist out of his grip, flip him over my shoulder, and slam him into the dirt.
He lands hard. Blinks up at me. Smiles.
And I know it right then.
He doesn't stay down.
In one smooth, fluid motion, he rolls back onto his feet, blood on his lip, amusement in his eyes. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyeing me like I'm the first storm he's wanted to walk into just to see if it would consume him.
"Nice throw," he says, voice low, rough. "You do that to all your enemies, or am I special?"
I don't give him the satisfaction of a reply. I lunge forward again, fist first. He dodges, barely, and our bodies twist in sync.
Blades flash. Steel sings. My foot connects with his side; he grabs my wrist and spins me with him, momentum carrying us both into a cracked pillar. Stone chips fall around us. We're breathing hard now—both of us bleeding, neither backing down.
"You fight like someone with something to prove," he says into the space between us.
"I fight like someone who doesn't want to die," I snap.
His eyes flicker. "Then you shouldn't have come to Vaelrin."
"You don't know anything about me."
A beat. A pause too long for a battlefield.
"Not yet," he says.
I hate how the words settle inside me like an ember finding dry leaves.
But
His hand is still on my wrist. Tight. Unyielding. But there's hesitation now. Something blurred, unwelcome, magnetic.
I twist again, but slower this time—like we both know I could break his grip but neither of us really wants to.
"You gonna kiss me or kill me?" he murmurs, heat curling in his voice like smoke.
I press the point of my blade against his chest. Just beneath the collarbone. His pulse flutters against it.
"Don't tempt me," I whisper.
And then I shove him back—hard—watching him stumble into the dirt again, less graceful this time. He stays on his knees, head tilted back, looking up at me like he's already chosen his poison.
The horn blares—Trial over.
Guards pour in, separating us with cold hands and barked orders. But we don't break eye contact. Not once.
They drag him toward the left tunnel. I'm pushed to the right.
Still, over the distance, through dust and blood and chaos, his voice reaches me.
"I'LL FIND OUT YOUR NAME," he calls.
I turn my back.
Let him chase it.
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