ETAN

Etan squeezed in two hours sleep before the tournament began, but it meant he had barely a moment to greet his mother and father and hear their caution for care in the fighting, before heading out to the competition arena.

The massive circle was simple dirt, packed hard by endless years of men and horses. The large ring was surrounded by solid wooden fences designed to stop loose animals running into the crowd. Larger than the training area and set all around with benches and seats for the citizens, and curtained boxes for the Royals, when the Lords strode out in a line to begin the sports, a mighty cheer rose from all the watchers.

Unsurprisingly, the loudest applause came for the Zenithran Lord—a Duke, Etan thought, a cousin to Ayleth, since she was the King and Queen’s only heir. He was a strapping lad, younger and slightly taller than Etan, but clearly strong and capable with the blade. He would be tough competition.

Etan was still bitter that the Zenithran King and Queen had set the tournament date to their own advantage, and he seethed through the first three rounds of swordplay and combat but didn’t watch the other men.

The rules of the Festival of Peace meant no blood should be spilled intentionally. Sword work above the shoulder was banned and the men were all given blunted blades painted on their edges so they would leave lines on any flesh or clothing they touched. Traditionally the paint was white—to symbolize the ceasefire. But again, the King and Queen had turned tradition on its head and used red paint.

Etan found it needlessly gory. But speaking up would be for no gain, so as Borsche had taught him, he used the time waiting for his turn to focus and breathe, centering himself. Ayleth’s face—her wide eyes following him out of the training arena that morning—kept swimming into his head and he had to push it away. His focus must be entirely on the battle ahead.

Although it was little more than a playfight, his father had warned him, as had Borsche, that some of the Lords would take any opportunity to injure or humiliate him. He must be on his guard. So, he breathed and he focused, and he prayed, until he heard his name called by the Master of Ceremonies.

When he stood, it was with crystal-clear focus on the task at hand, his eyes forward and intent, his chin low, and his shoulders back.

He didn’t care who they put him against, he would crush the man.

*****

AYLETH

While the others watched the rounds before theirs, Etan had sat on the contender’s bench at the side, his hands clasped on the hilt of his practice sword, its tip in the dirt, his forehead resting on his own knuckles, barely moving, seeming barely even to breathe.

What was he doing?

He was dressed in fighting leathers that clung to every muscle and curve in his body in such a way that Ayleth’s breath came faster. The fire in her belly hadn’t eased throughout the day, and when she saw him enter the arena she’d wanted to throw herself over the barrier and into his arms.

Then the Master of Ceremonies, his voice amplified by magic, called Etan’s name and she watched him come to life, so glad for the tournament allowing her to stare at him endlessly without anyone noticing.

He walked, chin down, staring at the center of the ring where the lines were painted for the swordsmen to stand and face first the King then each other, before their fight.

Ignoring those who called his name as well as those who taunted, he stalked into the center of the ring like a Lion into its den—the sheer masculine grace of him took her breath away.

He was so tall, but her cousin Dugg—a match she suspected her father had arranged intentionally—was taller, but not as broad. Just far crueller.

Ayleth’s heart was in her throat as the two men faced the King and bowed, then turned to face each other. When they bowed, Etan kept his eyes on his opponent, as was their custom. But Dugg did the same and Ayleth sucked in a gasp.

To watch your enemy during a bow in Zenithra was to declare war on him and his people. In doing so, her cousin signaled that he would give no quarter. If he had the killing blow he would take it. Ayleth opened her mouth to call a warning, but just then the umpire’s whistle blew, and the two men drew their swords and began to circle each other—Dugg with his blade high and in front of his chest, Etan with his lower, though tilted up.

The crowd roared. This battle had been set for last because it was the most anticipated, these two being the largest and most skilled.

Ayleth saw her cousin’s lips move—in a taunt, no doubt. But Etan didn’t respond, just continued to circle on the balls of his feet, one hand open at his side, the other holding the sword ready.

For a moment it seemed neither of them would attack. But finally, Dugg lashed out, his blade flashing in the sun and Ayleth was on her feet, gasping. He was so fast!

But Etan met the slide with his own blade—a small movement, barely enough to make it glance off. Yet he smiled as if he had the measure of Dugg, and the battle began.

Ayleth’s mouth opened in awe to watch him as he flowed like water between slashes, stabs and parries. His massive body honed and trained, he twisted and turned, human quicksilver, leaping and dodging like a cat. It seemed that every slash Dugg took where Etan had been just a moment before, he was no longer there—instead appearing at Dugg’s side, or almost at his back.

With a feint at his leg, Etan threw Dugg off-balance, turned smoothly, and with a backwards slash left the first slash on Dugg’s side.

The dulled sword hit Dugg’s ribs with a thud that echoed across the dirt and the crowd hissed in sympathy. But the man himself was set on fire—his eyes went wide, and he bared his teeth, coming at Etan with slash after slash, his long legs eating the space between them, his greater reach, almost taking Etan in the neck. Ayleth waited for the umpire to call the foul—no swordplay above the shoulder—but the man only glanced at her father, who continued to watch the fight as if nothing was amiss.

Ayleth’s stomach chilled as Dugg sliced high again and Etan bent back and sideways only just in time for the blade to pass—but jerked as it sliced just past his jaw.

When he straightened, his eyes were afire, and a nick on his jaw was bleeding.

Ayleth gasped.

With a practice sword, it would have been nothing. It wouldn’t even bruise. And yet, she realized with horror, Etan’s skin had been opened.

Her cousin’s blade wasn’t dulled.

Etan blocked successfully and the two backed off each other for a moment. But Etan touched his face, then looked at his fingers, and it was as if he swelled.

His eyes flashed rage with the realization that he was truly in a fight for his life—with a dulled blade, against a man who held a honed weapon.

His chin raised, along with one eyebrow and his jaw twitched. Ayleth held her breath. Would he forfeit the fight? Take the loss and save himself from risk?

But then, as if he had been merely playing before, Etan flowed forward, his sword—his dulled sword—a whirling flash in the sun as he unleashed toward Dugg. Whose blade was razor-sharp.

“NO!” Ayleth screamed, but her voice was swallowed by the crowd, who cheered and screamed for both fighters.