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Kultur glared at him. He only backed down when the hawkstone on his head flashed in caution, and the Kíríga snarled at him. ‘I am not conflicted about the two approaches. I’m learning to balance the real and the esoteric. One is not superior to another.’
‘I like the surge of energy from using kätu, but I’m no fool,’ the Kíríga continued, his voice booming with authority that cowed Kultur. ‘I know that counting too much on it is dangerous in a fight. While I admire the precision and discipline you bring, kaugur, there is great merit in the unexpectedness of the Shotelai way.’
Sana’a cocked her head as Killen spoke, grateful he’d spoken up for her, warmed by his balanced perspective.
Sana’a believed relying solely on mystic power would make Killen weak and unable to defend himself against any relentless attack. Instead, she favoured training for the unexpected and dominance in the air with sudden parries and wild strikes.
This, not airy-fairy magic, would save his life in battle, she thought.
The two trainers exchanged heated glances and ignored each other during the sessions afterwards.
In time, Killen’s technique became his own.
He began to find a balance between kätu and the Shotelai method. He incorporated both techniques into his fighting, becoming more versatile and unpredictable.
Still, Kultur was unhappy and found ways to nitpick and scold Sana’a’s form of training. ‘You’re a hindrance to this process,’ he shouted one morning. ‘I can’t stand this!’
‘Then leave,’ she clipped him the closest glance possible.
Kultur stared at her long and hard. ‘You’re not even one of us. You share the arrogance and impudence of your people. But you lack the finesse and intelligence to comprehend what you’re up against. I’ve seen your kind before and know how they end.’
‘And I’ve encountered your type, too,’ Sana’a retorted. ‘The strong always survive, and the weak crumble at the slightest offence. I think I know which one you are, and so do you.’
Kultur’s eyes blazed, and then he spit on the ground, turned, and stalked away.
‘Fokkin ay! He has a hard-on for me.’ Sana’a laughed, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘He has something,’ Killen agreed, his eyes dancing with emotion close to admiration.
Sana’a sighed, and her eyes lingered on Kultur as he departed.
While he was a pain in the butt, she respected his dedication to his craft.
Still, he’d thrown a tantrum, and she wasn’t going to call him back or sweet-talk his crotchety ass.
Especially as she kept getting a vibe off him that was suspect as all hell.
As for Killen, he tossed aside his trainers’ rivalry and practised with renewed obstinacy.
He was unrelenting, driven, and capable of incessant, dogged focus.
Sana’a’s esteem for him grew.
Training had awakened something in him, a spark of power he had never allowed himself to tap into. She saw him play with it, sensed it coursing through him, and even smiled as she witnessed his attempts to harness it.
His sparring ability and fights increased in intensity and skill.
Her essence and style of SHärd blading and Shotelai wielding began to merge with the man’s growing techniques and hawkstone kätu.
However, it was the storm that threatened to form between them, the unbidden vortex of attraction that charged the íkhara that she was wary of the most.
Being so close to him in the kíota, fighting eye to eye, where their minds, bodies and even their sweat intermingled, made her want to fling herself off the edge of the floating structure.
Every so often, she’d visualise how and when he’d take her.
Where he’d touch first, how he’d pound his cock into her and how he’d ease her freakin’ ache.
It took all of her everlovin’ strength to stop from moaning.
