Circling the Same Wound
The swords met with a shattering clang, steel biting steel. Sparks flared in the dusk, where the setting sun’s fire streaked across their blades, turning them into flickering tongues of flame.
Nic lunged—Collin parried.
Collin struck—Nic twisted away.
Each blow came faster than the last, blades locking and skimming, until Owen’s shouted commands faded beneath the pounding in Nic’s ears.
Collin had gotten better. Much better. Nic didn’t enjoy admitting it, but the truth crackled in every exchange.
Their sparring sessions used to end in minutes. This one felt like a siege. Collin had patched up his weaknesses, sharpened his footwork, diversified his attacks. He was unpredictable—and Nic hated that. The familiarity that usually gave Nic an edge had turned against him. Each deviation from Collin’s old rhythms needled deeper into his frustration, throwing off his timing, his judgment.
Damn it—he couldn’t even hear Owen anymore. Just the roar of blood and the clash of metal. The training ground vanished; only Collin remained in his vision.
Nic refused to lose. He had never lost to Collin—not once. Defeat wasn’t just personal. It was unthinkable. A loss here would haunt his bloodline.
With a snarl, he threw his weight into a strike. Amare screamed against Lumen as the swords met, grinding in a brutal contest of force.
Their eyes locked—flames behind Collin’s stare matching the inferno burning in Nic’s chest. No tricks now. This was raw will.
His shoulders trembled. His arms burned. Sweat matted his hair and stung his eyes, but he didn’t flinch. His breath rasped, teeth clenched tight enough to crack.
“Give up, Nic,” Collin growled.
He didn’t respond. Couldn’t.
He saw the subtle falter in Collin’s guard, felt the tremor in his stance. The tide was shifting.
Nic dug for that last scrap of resolve. The pain didn’t matter. Losing would hurt more.
A breath. A shift. The gritty crunch underfoot. The scent of exertion. A flicker of hesitation.
Nic moved.
With a roar, he surged forward.
Collin flew backward, arms flailing. His sword spun from his grip as he crashed into the dirt, a plume of dust rising in his wake.
And just like that, the world returned. Sound crashed down on Nic like a wave—shouts, footsteps, a slap on his back. He staggered, legs trembling, and dropped to one knee, planting his sword in the sand to keep from collapsing.
He had won.
It took several breaths before he could even speak, and longer still before his arms stopped shaking. He barely registered Owen’s praise, or his brother’s cheer from the sidelines.
All he saw was Collin.
Slowly, he rose and crossed the sand-strewn space between them. He held out a hand. Collin took it, and Nic hauled him tohis feet, saying with a smirk, “Took you long enough to hit the dirt. I was starting to think you’d grown a spine.”
Collin grinned, winded. “You were awesome. Someday, I’ll beat you!”
Nic retrieved Lumen and flipped it once before handing it back. “Sure. And someday I’ll sprout wings and sing soprano. Aim high, my friend.”
“Excellent! Go home early. You two have earned a well-deserved break!” the captain announced. “As for the rest of you, grab rakes and clean up the field.”
