Page 127 of What Fury Brings
Perfect. She was perfect.
And that’s why he didn’t want her to fucking die.
Olerra threw off the attack and made one of her own, slicing downward. The king jumped back, and Olerra stepped up for another sweeping attack.
The way she moved was incredible. Her steps were precise. Her movements were so fast, faster than his father’s. Yet his strikes were more powerful; Sanos knew she felt the impact in her bones. But she didn’t let up. She didn’t show any weakness save for that slight trembling, the pushing of her muscles to the brink.
Most bouts with the sword were quick, ending in two minutes or fewer. But this one? With two rivals of such skill? It went on and on and on. Olerra started to expend more energy to dodge the king’s strikesrather than catch them on her sword, avoiding the pain of that contact. It must have been weighing on her.
It meant she would tire out faster.
Yet the king was not as young as he used to be, and those powerful strikes were costing him.
Sanos could feel his heart in his throat. Sweat gathered on his skin, and it had nothing to do with the Amarran heat.
The misstep could have happened to anyone. It was not an official ring they fought within. Though the space had been cleared quickly, there were still rocks and debris on the well-traveled road to the main city gates.
Olerra stepped on uneven ground and swayed off-balance.
“Recover,” Ydra whispered beside him, and Sanos could only watch helplessly as his father drew first blood.
The cut was shallow, thanks to the light armor she wore. The stripe across her stomach could barely be seen from this distance.
But the red along the Kingsword flashed in the torchlight.
Olerra didn’t make a sound of pain, only looked down at the wound, as though surprised and unfamiliar with it.
“It’s not too late,” the king said. “I will let you renegotiate to the drawing of first blood and call this my win.”
“Not a chance,” Olerra said, slamming forward to knock the king off-kilter with the weight of her own body.
It was becoming harder and harder to think as Olerra’s body began to tire. She’d taken only the one injury, but it slowed her further. There was also no denying the fact that the more she watched the king fight, the more she had to admit—
He was superior with the sword. He knew it. He was putting on ashow for his troops more than anything else. Letting this fight carry on to be something that bards would sing about for years to come. And prolonging Olerra’s defeat.
“I really don’t see how it took four battles before we finally caught you,” Olerra said. “You fight like an old man.”
The taunt cost her.
This time the slice took her on the side of the arm and went deeper than the first. Olerra drew in a breath of air, adjusting to the fresh pain. It was her sword arm, and it flared whenever she moved her muscles.
“And you fight like a girl who’s been playing pretend for years,” he said.
“Tell me, how many years has it been since you won a battle, Atalius?”
She just barely managed to block his next strike, but gods, it hurt. Her wounds seeped and pulsed with pain. She went on the offensive, biting back the agony, keeping her focus on the gaps in the king’s armor.
No matter how fast she moved, he was always there to block her. As though he could anticipate her moves. That’s what the years of extra training did for him.
“What is the point of this?” he asked her. “You’ve lost your chance at a crown. Beating me won’t change that. Is this your final play? To die fighting? We both know you cannot beat me.”
Her sword glanced off his armor, her strikes losing their power. “I already won,” she said. “I took your heir. I’ve made him Amarran. Did you know he likes being my whore better than being your son?”
The last line was only a whisper meant for his ears.
And it was the tipping point.
Ataliushatedthat she’d put his son in bedroom clothes and paint. He flew at her with renewed fury, and his sword managed to land on the inside of her lower thigh.
