The sand hummed again, forming columns. Ferma disappeared like a shadow behind one, her hair hissing. Yassen crept forward, edging around the column when Ferma pounced from behind. Her hair jabbed his right shoulder, quick and savage.
Pain exploded down his burned arm. Yassen bit back a shout as he slipped behind the pillar of sand to escape her next blow. Ferma turned, and he noted the subtle catch of her breath, the very slight slowness of her movements.
Yassen waited until she was close and then, at the last second, grabbed her arm. She gasped in surprise, trying to stop her momentum, but it was too late. He ducked underneath her writhing hair and launched forward, delivering an uppercut squarely on the jaw, sending her sprawling. Ferma hit the floor, and the bell rang out.
“End of round,” the gamemaster announced.
Yassen panted as the Yumi sat up. She looked stunned, angry even, as she collected herself and rose to her feet.
“We’re the same, you and I,” Yassen said quietly so that only she could hear.
“We’re nothing alike,” she spat.
“We’re both warriors,” he said. “And we both want the same thing—the best for Ravence.”
“You want what’s best for you,” Ferma said, taming her hair.
The door behind her opened, and Elena stepped out.
“That’ll be all, Ferma,” Elena said. She was dressed in a gamesuit that revealed her supple curves and carved muscles. “I will test him myself.”
Ferma glared at him, and he saw the unspoken threat. He would not dare hurt Elena; he would be a fool to even land a scratch. Elena knew this. He saw the cold, calculated hunger in her dark eyes as she watched him. She meant to hurt him, and he could do nothing but accept the blows.
The Yumi slowly stalked out of the training field. And then he was alone with the heir of Ravence.
Yassen bowed as the bell rang out again, and Elena immediately sprang. Not with the grace and agility of Ferma but with a sureness that made every movement purposeful.
Mother’s Gold, she’s trained in the Unsung.
He recognized the footwork, how she rested her weight not on her heels, but on the balls of her feet. Yet as they began to circle each other, he noticed how she danced. Like sand in the wind. Feet quick and light, arms raised and poised. As if she could spin off at a moment’s notice, out of his reach, or leap right at him, her knee connecting with his jaw.
Yassen shook out his hands. His injured arm still rang, and a numbness began to creep up his elbow. He knew she was waiting for an opening, just as he had with Ferma.
Her eyes met his, and for a moment, time held its breath. There was a cold fury in hers, like a sleeping fire, ready to burst. But Yassen also saw something else: fear.
Every fighter felt nervous before a game, and if they didn’t, they were lying. But fear. Fear was what soldiers and thieves and assassins felt. Fear was what he had felt when he dangled on the stone wall, the sea churning beneath him. Fear was for those who had something to lose.
What could the princess of Ravence possibly fear to lose?
The columns of sand hummed and bent. He faked left, a move so obvious that when she came up on his right, he tensed for the blow.
She hit him in the chest, a deep jab that made his breath catch as he stumbled back. The sand hissed and crashed down. He rolled out of the way as Elena advanced. She was light on her feet, determined. Yassen rushed her, grabbing her arm, but she recognized the move and brought her knee up to block his punch.
He dove out of her reach, breathing hard. She smiled. This time, when she shot forward, he stepped into it and let her foot hit him in the stomach. Pain whiplashed through his body, and Yassen gasped, the air knocked from his lungs. She made quick work thereafter. Blow after blow rained down on him.
He could feel the calculated precision in every strike. He raised his hands up to protect his face when she whirled, delivering a kick square into his chest. He smacked into the sand.
“Enough,” Samson’s voice rang out.
Through bleary eyes, Yassen looked up to see Samson at the glass above. His mouth was a hard line.
“I think you’ve proven your point, Your Highness,” he added.
Elena shook out her arms. She looked down at Yassen sprawled on the black sand, fighting for breath.
“Next time, assassin,” she said, her voice low so that only he could hear, “use the Unsung instead of allowing yourself to be a punching bag.”
“I like to be of service, Your Highness.” Yassen grimaced, touching his arm to his chest in salute.
