Page 26 of Coldwire
I spring to my feet.
“Five-second warning.”
“Absolutely not,” Kieren says immediately. “My shirt doesn’t stretch.”
“Sounds like loser talk.”
He’s already taking off his shoes even while remaining resistant. “Lia, I swear, if you rip my shirt—”
I charge. He swerves the first blow I throw, but that was a distraction: my left hand comes up to tap his side, hard, marking a point. We’ve sparred enough over the years that he knows my tricks—the best way to win against him is to take him by surprise.
Even if it’s not entirely a surprise. Kieren recovers in rapid time, going on the offensive when he ducks.
“That’s such a cheat move,” he hisses, spinning backward. I barely skid away. “You wouldn’t have two knives in a real situation.”
“I would have thrown my one knife from my right hand to my left”—I grab his wrist, opting to embrace the hit rather than dodge it—“with a cool flip.”
I roll onto the mat, forcing Kieren down with me. He’s quick to take advantage of the momentum. Right as I’m regaining balance, the base of his hand makes contact with my shoulder, dragging it to mark a point. I earn another on the inside of his knee when he hurtles up.
Kieren steadies himself at the head of the mat. He splays his hands for surrender.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m probably bleeding out at this point.”
I narrow my eyes. I don’t believe it, but even half a second hesitating is enough. Kieren lunges and grips my shoulder hard; when both my hands go up to brace against the contact, his other fist drags across my stomach, marking an incapacitating hit.
I huff, shoving him away.
“You always do that.”
Kieren looks smug. “Win?”
“No,” I grumble. I mimic his motions. Never one abrupt hit, but contact that stretches left to right. “You drag out each of your marks.”
“Because I would slash you. That’s what I’m practicing.” He brushes out the wrinkles in his shirt. “It’s reliably a better method to disarm without killing. Stabbing can hit a crucial organ or break an artery.”
This is the first time I’ve actually asked why he does that, though I’ve watched Kieren rely on the same maneuvers for years. I suppose if there’s any moment to inquire, it’s now. We’re going into our first field assignment, the first instance where the acts we practice on a sparring mat might somewhat matter. It’s still upcountry. Emergency services will be called automatically if anyone brings out a knife. But that doesn’t mean there won’t be other sorts of roughhousing if we’re caught lingering around places we’re not allowed in.
“Hm,” I say. I shove my shoes back on. “You don’t want to kill someone trying to kill you?”
“If someone is trying tokillme, I’ll stab.” Kieren’s gaze goes blank. He’s checking the time. Morning grows brighter past the windows, voices floating along the path outside while the dorms begin to wake. “But I assume most people are only grappling with me. Security doing its job. Foreign agents fighting for a piece of the asset. Opponents backed into a corner.” He blinks, his eyes focusing again. “That warrants a survivable slash, I’d think.”
It doesn’t surprise me to hear Kieren’s reasoning, but it still takes me a beat to process it. It’s a line of logic that feels distant in my mind. Getting to the end of military academy is enough of a challenge. I haven’t been training my instincts for the field and the fights to come. I train to be outstanding in the present. Quick hits. Solid marks.
“Almost time?” I ask.
Kieren nods. “My father’s waiting for us in his office. NileCorp is here.”
“Off we go, then.” I roll up the mat, pushing it aside. “How did you find me here anyway? Missed me so much you searched the campus?”
“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t maximize the time we spent together today,” Kieren intones. “But no—this was the first place I looked. You’re kind of predictable.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. He is too, so that’s not a problem with me.
In the locker room outside the gym, I fetch the suitcase I left by the door, and Kieren picks up his backpack. We walk along the path to A Block in silence, my suitcase’s wheels making a racket on the uneven stones. A few faces press up against the dorm windows to watch us when we pass, curious enough to gawk. It’s only an early posting for the two cadets directly competing for valedictorian. There’s no third contender on our heels: everyone else in our class was left in the dust in tenth grade. Without a doubt, the one receiving the medallion at graduation will either be me or Kieren.
“After you,” Kieren says, opening the door into A Block for me.
“Thank you, you’re so kind.”
