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Outside, the dancing has become more fevered as the alcohol has had time to flow. One aspect of our culture here that has always struck me as odd is the way we hold on to so many of the old traditions, and yet we listen to the outside’s modern music. Turning even the most fanciful function into what could be considered a dance club, this particular song has a driving beat that the women shamelessly gyrate to.
I scan the room, looking for Elizabeth, and I just barely catch her platinum blonde hair and the hem of her dress as she steps into a side room. I have to push through dancing bodies and crowds of people who want to stop me to suck up, but I pay none of them any mind, eyes locked on the door I saw Elizabeth go through.
I pause outside the door at the sound of raised voices.
“Stop!” I hear Elizabeth shout.
I try the door but find it locked. I slam my shoulder into it, breaking it away from the hinges. Inside, I find Elizabeth with her back to the wall while Titus pins her there with his arms on her shoulders. Her head is pulled back and he’s leaned forward like he’s trying to kiss her.
I draw my Blade, hating how good the weight of it feels in my hand right now and how hard it is to resist squeezing the trigger. “Step back, brother,” I say calmly.
He turns, feet planted wide and shoulders pulled back proudly.
“Or what?” he asks. “You’ll shoot me? Right here? For fooling around with this slut?”
“Roark, don’t!” shouts Elizabeth.
“Stay there,” I say to her. I spin the weapon in my hand, triggering the release of the knife from my weapon’s barrel. I hold it in a cross-grip, left hand extended with palm to the floor, ready to grapple for control of Titus' free hand.
Titus smirks. “Oh? You just want to taste some steel?” he asks. “Why didn’t you say so, brother?” With a smooth motion, he draws his own blade and flicks the knife free, kneeling into an athletic stance, left shoulder facing me. “Fight till first blood?” he asks.
“Fight till you agree to keep your fucking hands off her,” I growl. It’s a blood challenge, but I initiated it, so winning means nothing as far as Elizabeth and I are concerned, but right now I just want to see him bleed.
He laughs, taking a step toward me and testing my guard with a wide, arcing swing. I don’t bother striking the blow away. Titus fights with too much flair and flash, he always has. He doesn’t just want to win duels, he wants to win in a way that leaves no doubt he was the superior duelist, even if it means putting himself at a disadvantage. A lesser man would’ve flinched back or swatted his strike away, but I don’t even blink.
Titus’ cocky smirk falters when I don’t take the bait. He does a showy spin of his Blade, tossing it from his right to left hand before shuffling his feet and lunging in to jab for my stomach. I sidestep the attack and aim to slam the handle of my pistol down on the back of his neck, but he moves with surprising quickness, spinning out of the way.
“Please!” shouts Elizabeth. “If this is because of me, I want you both to stop. Someone is going to get killed.”
“Killed?” asks Titus, who is grinning at me while circling slowly. “A death won’t be likely here, my sweet. It would be a terrible, unfortunate accident if my brother were to die.”
“So unfortunate it would land you straight on the throne,” I say, weapon at the ready.
His lip pulls up in a snarl as he dashes toward me, arms a blur as he strikes, jabs, thrusts, and uses his free hand to grapple with mine between blows, both of us struggling for the upper hand, even if it’s only a split second of throwing our opponent off balance with a well-placed shove or tug. My hand rings with the impacts as I bash away attack after attack, waiting patiently for my opening.
We break apart, both panting now. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck, and Titus’ forehead is covered in a sheen of sweat, too.
“You’re good, brother,” says Titus. “You always were. But you’re too timid. You defend when you should strike. You wait for an opportunity instead of making one. All the power is in my hands here.”
“We’re dueling to first blood,” I remind him. “Unless you’re trying to make my ears bleed with your constant talk, I suggest you make your move.”
He growls, launching into a furious assault. His blade is a silver streak as he spins into attack after attack, aiming high and low and never slowing. For a while, it’s all I can do to defend, but then I notice he’s entering into the same attack pattern he used in his last attack. Spinning backhanded strike to my neck, low sweeping kick followed by an upward jab to my stomach, and…
