The clang of their slingswords thundered through the field. The Unsung was a surprisingly simple form, but the idea of it, of using your opponent’s momentum against them, attacking quickly and exiting even faster, was hard to execute.
And Elena could feel herself beginning to tire as Yassen continued to fend off her cuts. Her arms shook, and her shoulders cramped.Mother’s Gold, so this is what he’s like when he doesn’t hold back.As if sensing her fatigue, Yassen flicked aside her strike and then lunged, his shoulder ramming into her chest.
She gasped, the impact knocking the air out of her. She scrambled back, bringing up her slingsword, but Yassen easily hit her wrist with the flat plane of his blade, knocking her sword from her hand. Her eyes widened. He rushed forward, his blade arcing up, and Elena saw her opening.
She spun down and around, sweeping her leg out as she had seen Ferma do so many times before, clipping Yassen across his ankles. He fell, his slingsword clattering to the ground. Elena snatched it and jumped on top of him, pinning him down as she raised his own blade to his throat.
“Peace,” she said, panting.
This close, she saw a bead of sweat run down the side of his forehead and into his hairline. Yassen looked up, his eyes clear and wide.
“Peace,” he whispered.
She realized then that he had let her win; that he would always let her win. The opening, though not a rookie mistake, was preventable. Yassen had offered it, knowing that a skilled fighter like her would notice.
Elena suddenly felt aware of how warm his hips felt against her legs. How his lips slightly parted as he looked up at her. She pushed to her feet and offered her hand. He took it, and she helped him stand. A thin line of red marked his throat where the slingsword had kissed his skin. Yassen saw her looking and touched it.
“It’ll heal,” he said.
Elena hobbled into her room, feeling as if sand was lodged between her bones. She sank into the warm bath Diya, her handmaiden, had drawn for her and soaked in the tub until her toes shriveled like dates. When she closed her eyes, she saw Yassen’s pale ones looking up at her.
It’ll heal.
He had been fast, so damn fast. And Phoenix Above, the way he had danced away from her attacks like sand in the wind. Absentmindedly, Elena touched her neck. The same spot where she had cut Yassen. The same spot he had touched when he had looked at her.
It’ll heal.
Diya brought her a robe, and then Elena dismissed her handmaid with a soft good night. When she was gone, Elena opened the doors to her balcony. A cool wind rustled the curtains. The air felt charged, and she looked up at the burdened sky. Another storm was due.
Elena grabbed a glass orb and took it to the hearth. As tired as she was, she could not rest. Not now. Carefully, she dipped the orb into the fire and scooped up a flame. Then she snatched the scroll from her desk and descended into her garden. By now, the forms and their directions, except the last, were ingrained in her mind, but seeing her mother’s handwriting gave her strength.
Lotus blossoms drifted in the stone basin of the fountain. She set the orb on the lip and unfurled the scroll. She imagined herself flowing through the forms like the wind over the dunes. Effortless.
In the distance, lightning flashed through the grey clouds.
She took a deep breath and sank into the first pose. The Warrior.
The path of fire is dangerous. Tread it with care.
Her muscles ached. Elena bit back a groan as she concentrated on her pose. She held out her arms, palms outstretched. Sweeping her right leg, she shifted her weight into the second form.
The Desert Sparrow.
Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool night. Elena balanced on her right foot, her left tucked behind her right thigh, her arms folded behind her like a resting sparrow. The fire hissed in its confines.
Empty your mind. See nothing but the fire—for that is all that matters.
Elena stared at the flame until she could see its shape beneath her eyes. She unfolded her arms, raising them above her head like wings. The fire sighed and then lengthened. She unlocked her leg to move into the third pose, but she moved too quickly. She lost her balance and stumbled back. The flame sputtered and died.
Cursing, she took the orb and went back to the hearth. Once more, she dipped the orb in the fire and withdrew a single flame. Back at the fountain, she resumed the pose but lost her balance. The flame left behind a thin trail of smoke. She tried again.
And again.
A sheen of sweat covered her face, her robe slick against her skin as she balanced on one leg for what felt like the hundredth time. With a deep breath, Elena lifted her arms above her head. The flame curled. Slowly, she unwound her limbs, and the fire grew. She sank into the third pose.
The Lotus.
She splayed out her fingers like a flower as she shifted her weight back into her heels. The flame pulsed. Her gaze never wavering, she spun, arms out, chest high—and the flame twisted with her. It expanded, beating against its glass prison.
