Page 109 of Slaying the Shadow Prince
Talemir drew himself up to full height and let the shadows ripple from his whole body. He called upon his wings, snarling as they speared through the muscles of his back and flared before his protégé. His claws shot from his fingertips, black and sharp, ready to cleave through flesh and bone. He felt the crackle of the dark magic beneath his skin, shooting through his veins, and from Wilder’s slack-mouthed expression, he knew he now appeared every bit the wraith he was.
‘See?’ he growled, every part of him writhing with power. ‘This is what I have become.’
Wilder’s chest heaved and he bared his teeth, a furious shout breaking from him before he lunged at Talemir, tackling him to the ground.
Talemir saw stars as both his and Wilder’s full weight landed on his wings, the agony blinding. But before his vision had focused, a fist collided with his jaw.
Teeth singing, Talemir’s eyes streamed instantly, pain blooming up the right side of his face. He turned his head and spat blood into a patch of flowers.
For a moment, he thought his eyesight was compromised. The bloomsshiftedas his blood hit the petals. He blinked hard. No, he wasn’t seeing things. The flowers hadphysically shied awayfrom the deep red splatters, away from his half-wraith blood.
The Furies were well and truly laughing at him now. For these were the very same blooms that Drue had been searching for: sun orchids.
But Wilder’s assault had only just begun. Lost in a rage, he pinned Talemir in the dirt and was already drawing his fist back for another blow —
Talemir blocked on instinct, twisting his legs around Wilder and kicking him off. ‘That was a shit punch,’ he goaded, fire igniting in his chest.
‘No doubt a reflection of my shit teacher,’ Wilder sneered, unstrapping his sword from his belt and tossing it aside.
Fading back into his Warsword form, Talemir did the same. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that Wilder’s rage was founded and his was not; it coursed through him all the same, a fiery current demanding to be unleashed. If Wilder wanted a fight, he’d get a fight.
His protégé’s nostrils flared, recognising the challenge, and he raised his fists, setting his stance wide.
Blood roared in Talemir’s ears, his jaw already throbbing. Talemir raised his own fists, and shifted on his feet, itching to exchange blows.
‘You really think you can take me, apprentice?’ he taunted. ‘You’re not nearly ready, Warsword or not.’
‘Fuck you.’ Wilder attacked.
There was no slow build-up, no testing the waters, for they knew one another’s strengths and weaknesses inside out. They launched themselves at each other, a flurry of fists and pain.
Wilder pummelled him, his knuckles colliding with Talemir’s gut, his temple, his kidney. And Talemir let him come, tasting blood in his mouth, a cut on the inside of his cheek.
Gods, one day, the midrealms wouldn’t stand a chance against Wilder Hawthorne.
Talemir took blow after blow, letting his protégé lose himself in his attack.
Then, Talemir struck. He delivered a jab, a cross, a hook and an uppercut all in brutally quick succession, circling like an enraged teerah panther.
Wilder’s teeth were lined with blood, but that rage hadn’t even begun to dissipate.
Nor had Talemir’s.
They fought another round, vicious and gruelling.
‘You happy now?’ Talemir shouted, shifting his weight and dodging a strike to his eye.
‘Not even close.’
Talemir blocked a hook to his face and delivered a hard and fast jab to Wilder’s ribs, eliciting a grunt of surprise.
‘You always leave that side open,’ Talemir ground out. When would the boy learn?
‘And you always talk too much —’ Wilder swung, his fist colliding with Talemir’s aching jaw.
Talemir saw stars again, stumbling.
He’d had enough.
