“Should have known you’d choose the knife.”
“It always was my favorite.”
We regarded one another for a moment in silence, our chests rising and falling after the first ten minutes of battle. I had drawn first blood, so I won by standard duel etiquette. But the both of us knew we were playing for more. We trained for Combat, and Combat trained to win. We were war mages. Our definition of winning was surrender—or death.
I adjusted my grip. One victory down, and one more to go. I lifted my hand at the same time Darren lowered his. Our eyes met and power burst from our fingertips. The dais rumbled and groaned, and I leaped to avoid a large fissure as Darren cast out a magicked globe, shielding himself from the storm of arrows I had sent flooding down from the ceiling.
This time there was no rest.
Fire tore a line across the fissure, sprouting even more flames as it chased me to the edge. I spun and doused it with a flurry of ice, listening to the snap, crackle, hiss as the flames met with cold.
For a second, heavy steam fogged up the arena. I shut my eyes and called up a memory for the next casting.
Darren and me. The night he told me he didn’t love me. Blayne laughing in my face while the fathomless prince watched, unfeeling, as my heart crumbled to a million pieces.
My fingers tingled, and I felt the warm static building in my arm. These were the memories I needed. Weather magic wasn’t like a normal casting: it was fueled by emotion. Extremities were best. And my years with Darren had certainly given me a large assortment to choose from:
“I told you not to trust a wolf. Because it would only ever want to break you… Haven’t you figured it out yet? I’m the wolf, Ryiah.”
A hot surge of anger leaped out of my core. I mentally harnessed the emotion and channeled its magic, letting the searing heat surge along my veins. Then, I released my casting.
A jolt of lightning struck Darren’s barrier and shattered it. There was a shrill, earsplitting noise as his casting splintered like glass.
Darren released his magic and sprinted across the platform, a magicked sword in each hand.
I sent out a large funnel of fire, but the prince crossed his arms mid-stride and the flames came barreling back. I had just enough time to duck to my left, and then a terrible smell met my nose. Bitter and burned.
I lifted a hand to my head. The fire had singed off part of my hair, just above my right ear.
When Darren came again I was ready. Ice shot out across the short distance between us and met with the prince’s swords. His metal froze over, webs of glistening frost spreading from the tip to the handle with a shrill crack.
Darren dropped his castings with a growl—nothing like the biting sting of frozen metal—and looked to his palms. They were now reddish-black.
I was torn between guilt and glee. I knew how they felt. I’d had that same casting done to me when I was an apprentice.
But I was here to win.
I barreled forward and prepared to end our duel with a knife to his neck. Or that was what I had planned. But, like usual, Darren was one step ahead of me.
The second the steel started to materialize in my hand Darren tackled me mid-stride.
Before I could get a good focus my casting disappeared—concentration broken by his attack—and we both hit the hard stone floor with a loud thud.
I felt the jarring impact in my side rather than the full at my back. I had somehow grappled my way so that Darren wasn’t quite pinning me flat—one leg in and one out.
Darren was trying to wrestle me to the floor, but I knew the second he had my shoulders the match was as good as over. I would never be able to break the full weight of his hold if I couldn’t push forward. I knew I would never win a contest with my arms—I simply didn’t have the mass—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t fool Darren into thinking I’d try. He and I had never fought in hand-to-hand combat, so I could only hope that meant he hadn’t been paying attention during my training in the apprenticeship.
Pretending to gasp, I made a huge deal out of struggling back and forth to break free. Darren took the bait. He leaned forward to pin me back and my second leg snaked free. It took me all of two seconds to dig my first heel into his hip and pivot to the side.
It was enough to give me some leverage against his weight.
I threw myself forward using the second leg to kick up and off the ground, rolling the prince underneath me. I was up.
But I was sitting too far back. Darren’s reflexes were too fast. Or maybe he had expected the move. His hips threw me, and I toppled forward, palms slapping the ground while he used the strength in his torso to flip-roll me back. Hard.
I landed on my back with a curse. My lungs were on fire, and I wasn’t sure I hadn’t broken something in that twist. White-hot pain was eating away at my ribs, and Darren had my arms pinned out onto the stone ground beneath me.