34

The cheers only increased in volume, mixed with the thunderous stamping of feet and sporadic wild howls. Rona’s head only dipped lower, her tail tucked between her legs. Lady Glennis looked just as irritated as the duchess as she summoned Rona off the field and back into the staging area.

Then I was alone, standing in the middle of the arena with my sword in hand, as I looked up at the king.

This could not be happening. I felt like I was standing slightly outside my body. Like at any moment I’d wake up from a terrible nightmare. Spar the king? Was Barion mad?

Barion just winked at me. He stood just in the doorway to the staging area, arms crossed over his chest, grinning like he’d just pulled off the greatest scheme of all time. If I had actually wanted to win this contest, I would’ve agreed. But now—now I wouldn’t be losing to Fina as I expected.

What did the king want out of this? Would he want to prove something to me? Or was this just a show for his subjects? Fear gripped my heart.

So much for trying to downplay my abilities. At close range, the king would see right through that.

“Nightfall has spoken,” the king said. “We will see if Lady Reyna is as skilled as her escort suggests.”

The box in the stands was just over a story off the ground. The king stood and pulled off his cloak, draping it over his chair as he ignored whatever quiet, angry words the duchess was throwing at him. I expected the king to disappear into a doorway and spend a few minutes coming down the stairs, like a normal leader might, but he simply gripped the railing and sprang over the bars, agile as a cat. He landed in a low crouch. The gesture was effortless.

I swallowed hard. I wanted to step back, to put more distance between us—maybe that would help me ignore the sudden tight curl in my gut. Anxiety, or something else, I wasn’t sure. This wasn’t going to be easy, what with the way my wolf already wanted to show deference to the king.

My mind wanted to fight him, and my instincts wanted to run.

But I was used to controlling my instincts. Barion was right about one thing—he had trained me well.

The king stood up. He rolled the sleeves of his fine white dress shirt up over the corded muscle of his forearms. He picked up a broadsword from the armory table without looking and twirled it in hand, effortless. Like it weighed no more than a feather.

Then a hush fell over the crowd as he stepped into the white ring.

Without thinking, I fell into a defensive stance, similar to the way I’d faced Rona. Left foot forward. Sword in right hand. But this time, I kept my blade high, defensively ahead of me instead of low and teasing by my hip. The king was using a dulled sword, but that didn’t mean a thing if he brought it down full power onto my head.

Rose stepped forward, looking newly interested in the affair.

“Lady Reyna of Daybreak,” she said, and nodded at me. “Your Majesty.” She nodded at the king.

She raised one hand and said, “Begin.”

The king advanced without hesitation, moving straight toward me like the predator he was. I felt small and terrified, like a rabbit spotted on the open plain. Not like a wolf at all. He raised his sword high over his head, an obvious show of fearlessness and ferocity—exposing his belly to me, were I brave enough to lunge for it. I wasn’t. I hesitated. He grinned and brought his blade down in a high arc. His style was not dissimilar to Rona, but where Rona was wild and angry, the king was fluid, controlled, even amused.

I ducked to the left, avoiding his blade so it slammed into the dirt with a thunk. The pants were doing wonders for my flexibility—I moved with ease, without having to worry about stepping on a hem. I stayed low, blade in front of me as I moved to the center of the ring. Then I darted forward, swinging my sword in an arc toward the king’s back, but with animal swiftness he whirled around and blocked my blade. The steel clanged together with a sound that resonated into my bones as I struggled to keep a hold on the hilt against the king’s powerful strike. He grinned at me as he pushed forward.

“Nice block, little wolf,” he growled.

I wrenched my blade away and darted to the side and back toward the center of the ring. He had more strength than I did—that much was obvious. But I was fast. Fast and dexterous. I didn’t need to match him strike for strike. I just needed one good opportunity. One opening. He was fast too, though, and moved with measured elegance, leaving no obvious openings as he strode forward again.

Clang, clang, clang. I blocked his strikes, not countering, still trying to read his style. He tried to push me to the edges of the ring, but I kept turning on my heel, staying near the center, watching the arc of his shoulders for the most minor hints of planned movement.

And then—there. He raised his blade and lunged toward me, blade straight out, as if to run it through me like a kebab. I saw him shift into the stance, and ducked down beneath his arm, moving under his blade as he moved toward me. I was close enough to drive my sword into his gut. This close I could smell him, the sweat forming at his axilla and the blood thrumming under his skin; I dragged the tip of my blade over his ribs as proof that I was this close.Despite the dulled edge of the sword, the very tip was still sharp enough to pierce through the fine cotton of his shirt, leaving a small cut in the fabric where I’d been.