Page 152 of The Sun He Buried

I hit him again.

He blocks the second and drives a fist into my stomach.

The drink comes up.

I keep it.

Barely.

“Wasteful,” I tell him.

His knee catches my thigh. “You have more.”

I go for his ribs.

Ketill knows me better than the guards. He knew me before I learned to keep my feelings behind a wall, before I grew taller than him, before either of us understood that power would turn one boy into a Dróttin and the other into the only man still willing to call him an idiot.

He blocks high.

I go low.

My fist lands beneath his ribs.

Ketill grunts and catches me across the temple.

The clearing tilts.

He gives me no time. Two fists. One to the body, one toward the exposed side of my face. I turn from the second. His knuckles strike the edge of the mask.

Pain shoots through the bonded runes.

Good.

I hit him harder.

We cross the circle and destroy what remains of the clean snow. Boots slide. Fists land. Ketill’s concern never changes. He is furious with me and worried in the same breath.

That should make him easier to hit.

It doesn’t.

Solveih’s warmth shifts.

Curiosity. A quick ache. Tenderness follows, quiet enough that the bond should have lost it beneath the fight.

It doesn’t.

I miss Ketill’s shoulder.

His fist catches my ribs.

I could block the next one.

I let it land.

Ketill steps back.

“Hands up.”