An Ember in the Ashes (Ember Quartet #1)(89)

“I don’t need them. I don’t need any of you.”

“I didn’t want Marcus to—”

“Screw Marcus. I could beat Marcus to a pulp with my eyes closed. And I could beat you too. Tell them to leave me alone.”

“No.”

She gets in my face, anger radiating off her in waves. “Call them off.”

“Not gonna do it.”

She crosses her arms and stands inches from my face. “I challenge you. Single combat, three battles. You win, I keep the bodyguards. You lose, you call them off.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing I can beat her. I’ve done it a thousand times before. “When?”

“Now. I want this done with.” She makes for the closest training building, and I take my time following, watching the way she moves: angry, favoring her right leg, must have bruised the left in practice, keeps clenching that right fist—probably because she wants to punch me with it.

Rage colors her every movement. Rage that has nothing to do with her so-called bodyguards and everything to do with me and her and the confusion rolling around inside both of us.

This should be interesting.

Helene heads for the largest of the empty training rooms, launching an attack the second I’m through the door. As I expected, she comes at me with a right hook, hissing when I duck it. She’s fast and vengeful, and for a few minutes, I think my losing streak might continue. But an image of Marcus gloating, of Marcus ambushing Helene, sets my blood boiling, and I unleash a vicious offense.

I win the first battle, but Helene rebounds in the second, nearly taking my head off with the swiftness of her attack. Twenty minutes later, when I yield, she doesn’t bother to relish the victory.

“Again,” she says. “Try and show up this time.”

We circle each other like wary cats until I fly toward her, my scim high. She is undaunted, and our weapons crash together in a starburst of sparks.

Battle rage takes me. There is perfection in a fight like this. My scim is an extension of my body, moving so swiftly that it might be its own master. The battle is a dance, one I know so well I barely have to think. And though the sweat floods off me and my muscles burn, desperate for rest, I feel alive, obscenely alive.

We match each other stroke for stroke until I get a hit on her right arm. She tries to switch sword arms, but I jab my scim at her wrist faster than she can parry. Her scim goes flying, and I tackle her. Her white-blonde hair tumbles free of her bun.

“Surrender!” I pin her down at the wrists, but she thrashes and rips one arm free, scrabbling for a dagger at her waist. Steel stabs at my ribs, and seconds later, I am on my back with a blade at my throat.

“Ha!” She leans down, her hair falling around us like a shimmering silver curtain. Her chest heaves, she’s covered in sweat, hurt darkens her eyes—and she is still so beautiful that my throat tightens, and I want so badly to kiss her.

She must see it in my eyes, because the hurt turns to confusion as we gaze at each other. I know then that there is a choice to be made. A choice that might change everything.

Kiss her and she’ll be yours. You can explain everything and she’ll understand, because she’ll love you. She’ll win the Trials, you’ll be Blood Shrike, and when you ask for freedom, she’ll give it to you.

But will she? If I’m entangled with her, won’t that make it worse? Do I want to kiss her because I love her or because I need something from her? Or both?

All this passes through my head in a second. Do it, my instincts scream. Kiss her.

I wrap her silk-smooth hair around my hand. Her breath catches, and she melts into me, her body suddenly, intoxicatingly pliant.

And then, as I pull her face toward me, as our eyes are closing, we hear the scream.





XXXIII: Laia


The school is mostly quiet when Izzi and I emerge from the slaves’ quarters. A few students still out head to the barracks in small groups, their shoulders slumped with tiredness.

“Did you see the Farrars go in?” I ask Izzi on the way to the training building.

She shakes her head. “I was sitting there staring at those pillars, bored as a stone, when I noticed one of the bricks was different—shiny, like it had been touched more than the others. And then—well, come on, I’ll show you.”

We enter the building and are greeted by the almost musical ring of clashing scims. Ahead of us, a training-room door stands open, and gold torchlight pours into the hallway. A pair of Masks battles within, each brandishing two slender scims.

“It’s Veturius,” Izzi says. “And Aquilla. They’ve been at it for ages.”

As I watch them fight, I find that I’m holding my breath. They move like dancers, whirling back and forth across the room, graceful, liquid, deadly. And so swift, like shadows on the surface of a river. If I wasn’t watching it with my own eyes, I would never believe anyone could move that fast.

Veturius knocks the scim from Aquilla’s hand, and he is on her, their bodies entangled as they wrestle across the floor with a strange, intimate violence. He is all muscle and force, and yet I can see in the way he fights that he is holding himself back. He is refusing to unleash his whole strength on her. Even still, there is an animal freedom to how he moves, a controlled chaos that makes the air around him blaze. So different from Keenan, with his restrained solemnity and cool interest.