Page 66 of Bound By Roses

I move to Abby and slip my hand around one of the many daggers tucked away in her belt. These blades have served me well over the years before they found a new home with her. “Can I borrow this?” I ask, a mere whisper in her ear.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Not one bit, but I need you to trust me.”

I expect her to argue, but instead she grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me in for a quick kiss. I don’t deserve her.

Dagger in hand, I move to the closest siren who’d had their hand up and offer it to them. “Killing me won’t bring back the ones you’ve lost, but if you need to draw blood—here.”

They take the knife and eye the cool steel of the blade for a long moment before tossing it into the dirt. “Spilling your blood will not bring them back either.”

Well, that was unexpected and not entirely helpful. Bleeding is the whole point. I collect the blade and move along the line of sirens until someone steps forward to claim the knife. It’s a woman with long, brown hair and eyes as grey as a storm cloud. She cuts deep into the flesh of my arm with one swift motion, staining the sand between us.

Good.

I continue moving through the sirens until six more have taken their turn with the blade. That number is a lot lower than I’d been expecting—especially considering how many of these same people were so eager for a chance to knock my teeth out upon my arrival.

On the off chance I’ve missed someone, I move back to the center of the gathering. “Anyone else?”

My arms are sticky with blood, but it looks a lot worse than it is. These gashes will heal quickly and the disapproval I feelwafting off of Abby has a far worse sting. A part of my training while growing up in Rosewood wasn’t unlike this. My father firmly believed that I couldn’t strike a blow unless I could take one, just as spilling blood would be undeserved unless mine had first been spilled.

That was one of the first lessons I had to learn, and many of the most faded scars that decorate my arms, legs, and torso are evidence of his handiwork. He cut me every single day, until he could do so without sparking a reaction from me. It took a year and a half to master the pain, and the very last time his blade sliced into me—outside of training—was my twelfth birthday. He’d cut deepest then, just to be certain that I no longer feared the sharp bite of steel. Because, as he liked to say, a warrior who feared injury was destined for death.

I’m about to return the dagger to Abby when the crowd parts and Erwyn strides through. Because of course he does.

“I do not draw blood unless it is in battle.” To emphasize his words, he unsheathes his sword and holds it out at the ready. I didn’t have much time to analyze his skill the last time we sparred, but out here, on the sand, I can see it all too clearly. His stance is good, but he’s grown too used to hurtling spears at fish in the ocean.

I tuck the dagger into the leather strap at my waist and draw my sword, holding it more relaxed than Erwyn seems to be. I can’t decide if he’s just angry or if those are nerves shining through his facade. “And I’m to just trust you won’t kill me?” He wouldn’t get close, but I want to see how he fights when his mind isn’t clouded with rage. Pointing that out wouldn’t work in my favour.

“You have no right to lead anyone into battle if you cannot best me. In Marein, we earn our ranks. We are not born into them.” He swings his blade in what I imagine was an attempt tocatch me off guard, but mine was already moving to deflect the impending blow.

“I was born into nothing,” I say as we make contact. My eyes never leave his, but I don’t miss that his left foot slipped ever so slightly on the uneven ground. This could be over now if I desired.

“You were labeled the prince of a kingdom that should never have existed.”

“And trained to lead its army from before I could swing a sword.” I push him off and unleash a swing of my own. He manages to dodge it, but it was closer than I’d intended. So much for dragging this out a bit.

The near-success of my attack seems to have sparked the rage I was hoping to avoid, and Erwyn lets out a roar. “Then hit me!”

I duck low under his next strike and sprint towards him, closing the distance between us in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t expecting the speed. The last time we fought, I was injured. To be fair, I’m not exactly uninjured now, but a few scratches are easy to ignore.

I could hit him. Erwyn’s left enough of an opening to clip him right on the side. If I pull back at the last moment, I’d leave only a scrape, but then this fight would never end. He’ll keep challenging me. If I’m to earn the respect of these people, I need to first earn the respect of the man they consider their greatest fighter.

I make a choice in that moment, and commit to it. I make it obvious that I’m moving for the opening and Erwyn reacts just as I knew he would. He takes a step back in an effort to dodge the attack. He was expecting a swing, but instead I lurch forward again and kick out for his unbalanced left foot. That’s a weakness we once shared, but I had it drilled out of me by the time I was fourteen. I guess Erwyn never had that lesson.

He trips and falls backwards. He sends his sword up in a desperate attempt to be the first to draw blood, but the blow is too easily blocked by a flick of my blade. Not that it would have landed, anyway.

“Have you seen enough?” I ask, making sure to keep my breathing under control so not to reveal that the skirmish exerted me in the slightest.

“Why?” he grumbles. “Is that the best you can do?”

He doesn’t accept that he’s lost, which is fair since I technically haven’t cut him. He’s at my mercy now, but I’ve never been one to take the cheap shots. Instead, I take a step back and allow him to stand.

‘Trust me,’I say to Abby before tossing my blade aside. The sting of her disapproval grows stronger, but there’s something else there, too. I have to stop myself from beaming at the thought of her being as impressed as she is annoyed.

One of the first lessons my father taught me was to never drop my blade, but in the time since his death, I’ve learned more than he could have ever shared. I can almost hear his voice in my mind now, chastising me and calling me a fool. Just as the Echo of Terranous once did. It’s easy to push aside the thought because I’m more than what he raised me to be. I’m stronger, faster, and not entirely human.

I use those instincts to sidestep Erwyn when he sprints in my direction. And then I do it again, and again, and again. Even in this form, my wolfish senses serve me well. It’s all too easy to predict Erwyn’s lumbering movements by instinct alone, and the change in his breathing when he thinks he’s about to land a hit is all the warning I need to step to the side.

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