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“Stryker versus Clearwater. Are you up for it?”

Emara swallowed. She wouldn’t back down, wanting nothing more than to wipe that smug grin off his face. “Absolutely.”

Torin rallied around her. “Play into his weakness, Emara,” he commanded from the side. “Find his before he finds yours.”

“Not everyone has one,” Artem shouted, looking cockier than ever as he walked over to an empty space.

Torin moved closer to Emara’s ear, her heart fluttering, and whispered. “Trust me, he does. Feel the magic in your blood. Find your inner strength. Trust your instincts. He doesn’t know how trained you are.”

“I heard you don’t really train with weapons, you just like to throw elbows,” Artem baited her.

But recently she had, and she wondered if Torin had left out that she had been using a training pole for a reason. He liked her to keep her abilities discreet until she needed them.

She took one step forward, feeling the weight and texture of the stick—something that she had spent an entire day’s training on—and rolled it over her hand once. Emara eyed up how Artem held his.

He gave her a confident grin, but she didn’t return it.

She had a lot to prove. She had respect to gain, especially in her new status. Maybe she could show the hunters, who had been looking at her funny as she walked through the training peak, that they were wrong. Witches could fight without magic—and win.

Once she had centred herself, she kicked off, powering from the grainy surface underneath her boots. She gathered strength in her legs and gripped the pole tight, but not too tight, otherwise she couldn’t work it to her advantage.

Torin had also taught her that.

Artem met her in the middle, their sticks clashing. He was much, much, much taller than her, and she struggled against him as he forced weight down on her stick.

“So little,” he teased.

She had found his weakness already.

Artem couldn’t shut up, especially when he thought he didn’t need full concentration.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Torin step back, watching intently, probably so that he could critique her and then make her do it again “the right way.”

But all she had to do was keep Artem distracted long enough to strike. He wouldn’t expect such a new fighter to play mind games with their opponent. But the Blacksteels had taught her that from the first training session.

Emara ducked under his arms, relieving the tension building against the two sticks, and the weight of him stumbled forth. She turned quickly, and it was good that she had, as Artem was attacking. His wooden pole came towards her; this time it was not horizontal, but vertical. It slashed down like a sword, almost skimming her shoulder, but she veered to the side just in time.

This time.

“Faster, Emara!” Torin coached from the side. “Move before he does. Keep him guessing what you will do next. Don’t be predictable.”

But she had a tactic of her own that she would like to try out.

“I was thinking about that present, by the way.” She made herself sound distracted, like all she could do was think of helping him as they circled each other.

He looked like he wanted to ask what she had come up with, but didn’t.

“I think I know what you can get her,” she said all too loudly. “And it’s perfect.”

His left eye twitched and he blinked, knowing that if she revealed her name in front of all these warriors, he would never live it down.

He swallowed.

This was it. This was her chance.

Leaning on one leg, she spun, kicking out with as much strength as her core could manage. Her foot collided with his hand, jamming his fingers against the wood enough for him to let go of one side. She took advantage of that too as she lurched forward, thrusting her pole under his, flicking it upwards and into the air.

It landed on the ground beside her.