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“What is this style called?”
Constantine continued to flow through the moves. “It’s the Andine style. I was trained by my father, who was trained by his father before him and so on. The kurios’s greatest weapons are his people and his sword. We begin training as soon as we can walk.”
“It’s beautiful. Similar to my training, but a distant relative.”
“Are you going to tell me where you’re really from?” He slid his sword into the sheath at his waist. “I agree about the differences between our sword work, but I’ve never seen anyone fight the way you do. Let alone … a woman.”
She let out a stilted laugh and took another sip of water. “You wouldn’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“Fine.” She set the water down and brought her sword back before her. She ran through her paces from the ancients of her people. They required no thought at all. Not like the Andine style. “I come from a world called Alandria, where Fae rule in a society of dragon riders. I was one such dragon rider. An organization rose up to subjugate those who were not fully Fae. I was sent here through a portal to find help.” She whirled her blade in an arc and met his intrigued gaze. “Instead, I found Flavia. I found you. I found this world, just as shattered and broken as mine. And still, I seek a way to help them.”
He pursed his lips as he considered the information. “You wish me to believe this tale? Dragon riders and magic portals and Fae safe havens?”
Kerrigan shrugged, her breathing even and measured. “I don’t care what you believe. You asked. I answered.”
“This is why you want to be in the tournament? Not just to get out of the bidding?”
“Wouldn’t you do anything to save Andine if you could?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
For that moment, they were the same. Both fighters wanting nothing more than to regain what had been lost. She still had a chance of that. She hoped, one day, maybe he would too.
22
The Lower Fights
Three days later, the gladiators cleared out of the house for their respective fights or to watch the competition. She had gotten accustomed to having a bunch of half-naked men grunting over weights and swinging weapons around. Evander had gone with the men to watch their bouts, collect money, and be the hand of the kurios. Now, it was just her and Constantine facing off.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Constantine growled early that afternoon.
She had been working on the Andine style, and she mostly had the hang of it. When she concentrated at least. When her mind wandered even a little, she reverted to her own style. Constantine didn’t care that she was proficient in multiple styles, but he wanted her to be focused. Not spending any time relying on old habits.
“I don’t even know what you mean,” she snarled.
His sword arm came down onto hers. She cried out as he broke her grip and sent her sword sprawling. Normally, she’d be able to conjure her elemental magic. She was so accustomed to drawing up air to throw off her opponent that she made the gesture without thinking and then dived to the side to retrieve her blade.
“That,” he roared.
“I got the blade back.”
“What was the flourish at the end? You won’t stop doing it, and it’s the quarter second every time where I can get into your guard.”
She frowned. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
Her magic. That was the extra flourish. But she didn’t have magic any longer. Just a bottomless pit of nothing. She forced down the terror. The overwhelming sensation that she was going to succumb to its beckoning call. She almost had when she’d lost her magic and in those terrible moments after landing in Domara, when she knew it was all over.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no …”
“Felicity,” Constantine said. “What is it?”
She held her hand up to silence him. Her heart was pounding. Not just her heart. She could also feel her pulse in her fingers and stomach and throat. The peaks of her gently pointed ears even thrummed against her skin. A brick settled on her chest, and she wasn’t sure if she could even swallow. All of it came at the same time. Panic filled the void, screaming through her mind that this was the end. Her magic was so tightly tied to her fighting that the feeling crept up more and more, and this was the worst it had ever been. Finally, the weight lifted from her chest, and she swallowed back bile.
Constantine was right. It was holding her back, but she didn’t know how to stop it.
“I don’t know how to control this,” she admitted.
She was glad the gladiators were gone. She couldn’t have spoken about this with them in earshot.
“Control what?”
“Remember when I told you about the fight in my world? And how I was sent here?”
