Page 78 of The Midnight Death Match

Guilt stings. “Of course not.”

“We must have our death match.”

His words hit hard enough to make me stumble backward. A lump forms in my throat. “You don’t have a weapon.”

That’s when I realize why he really came.

I shake my head. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m doing it for you. But this is where it ends for me.”

Silence pulses between us.

My grip tightens. “You said you’d walk this path with me.”

“I wanted to, and I got more time with you than I should have. Nature dictated we should have fought the moment we met, since you were already coming into your powers.”

“Not nature,” I correct. “Acurse. And we don’t have to let it win.”

“There isn’t another way.” His gestures toward where Mirendel stands like a wounded soldier.

“I’m not letting you do this.” I place my sword in its sheath.

“You don’t have a choice.” His voice is gentle, but firm. “This curse was never meant to pass through you. It’s mine to end.”

“End?” I hesitate.

He nods, unmoving.

I draw my sword slowly. “Then let’s end it. Fight me.” Anger flares in my chest, sudden and sharp. “You think that makes it easier? That I’ll live with your blood on my hands and just… move on?”

“You’ll live,” he says. “That’s enough. Just like I did, and every one of our forefathers.”

I step closer, blade low but ready. “Don’t make me fight you.”

His eyes darken. “Then strike.”

We stand in the stillness—father and daughter, hunter and huntress, two edges of the same blade.

The curse hums through my bones, screaming for resolution. I know what’s coming. I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive it.

I take a step forward, my focus on the sword he pulled seemingly from nowhere. I’m going to treat this like any of our practice sessions. My goal is to block his strikes until I tire him out. We can still find a loophole. I know it.

The first blow comes fast. I parry without thinking. It’s pure instinct after so many sparring sessions. Our swords clash, the impact rippling through my arms with a pulse of regret. The metallic ring echoes off the sanctuary walls, causing a funeral bell to toll. I shudder at the irony.

Einar is faster than usual. Stronger, too. But there’s an obvious heaviness in his movements, like he’s carrying more than just steel. Because he is.

Neither of us wants this.

We move like two halves of a whole, knowing each other’s rhythm, predicting the arc of each strike. His blade cuts through the air where my shoulder was a heartbeat before. I pivot, my sword sweeping toward his ribs, but it’s a phantom strike—all motion, no intent. I barely scratch his protective vest. I don’t strike to wound. I’m giving it enough effort that he believes I’m in on this madness, and not a drop more.

My blade sings through the air, but always too high, too low, veering wide at the last instant. Each near miss burns like acid in my throat. My body knows how to kill—it’s been part of me even before I knew it. The wolf in me hungers for it, claws scratching at the inside of my ribs, demanding release.

But my heart won’t let it. I’ve held it off before, and I’ll do it again.

Einar presses harder, forcing me back across the crumbled stones of the sanctuary. His boots find purchase where mine slip. His movements are fluid, economical like the dance of someone who’s accepted what must be done. But his face is grim, jaw set like he’s biting back screams, and his eyes… they’re breaking.

“You have to fight me,” he says through clenched teeth, his blade whistling past my ear close enough to part my hair. “You have to end this, Eira.”

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