Our blades collide.
Steel screams against steel as she presses her advantage. I do not reveal the full extent of my strength. I give her only enough—testing her power in return.
She is more than a foot shorter than I am. Yet the force she channels through that small frame should not be possible.
She locks my blade with her right one and swings for me with the left one. I deflect it with the brace covering my forearm, the impact ringing up through the bone. Then I drive forward and force her back three steps.
She recovers quickly and retreats only long enough to swing again.
I duck her first sweep—the blade meant to separate my head from my shoulders—and spin, planting my elbow hard between her shoulder blades. The strike sends her stumbling forward.
“If you wished to make my acquaintance, a greeting would have sufficed. We could have begun on far better terms, wouldn’t you say?”
She turns.
A glacial look settles over her small features.
A chuckle escapes me.
I like that expression. She looks murderous.
It’s very becoming on her face. Dare I say, sexy even. Like a vengeful little sprite. Or a young Valkyrie, though little remains now of them but myth.
The battle with me she’s searching for comes then. It’s not an attack. It’s an onslaught of attacks in rapid succession. She feigns and spins, uses her speed, flexibility, and dexterity to try to take me unawares. She’s seeking an opening in my armor, searching for weaknesses to exploit.
It is, honestly, the most enjoyable fight I’ve had in ages.
I parry. Redirect. Meet her blade for blade. Steel clashes in sharp, ringing bursts that scatter one lone black crow from a distant tree. It squawks in outrage as it takes flight.
We move around the break in the forest, circling one another as she searches for another opportunity to strike.
“Must we do this?” I ask lightly. “Surely exchanging words and resolving whatever grievance you have would be easier—and far less bloody.”
“Shut up.”
It is the first time she has spoken to me.
Her voice—real, warm, edged in fury—settles into me with surprising satisfaction. It matches the soft, sultry cadence I have long heard in my mind when she condemns me as a dishonest snake.
I quite enjoy hearing it beyond my own thoughts.
“Why? Are you afraid of the pull I might have over you if I continue to speak?”
Her blade darts for my side, forcing me to quickly twist away. It would not kill me, but the sting and momentary pain before my flesh knits itself whole is something I prefer to avoid.
“Put down the blade, Dove.”
For a heartbeat, I nearly call her White Witch—the name I have given her in my thoughts for years—but it no longer fits. Innocence bleeds from her in ways I had not expected. The anger burning in her mind feels forced, cultivated, as though she believes she should hate me.
But why?
Where does that belief stem from?
“Not until I cut your serpent tongue from your filthy mouth.”
I grin.
Heaven’s Gate… her rage is an aphrodisiac.
