Page 107 of The Devil May Care

She’s every gym teacher I’ve ever known trying to convince rabid third graders that dodge ball is meant to be fun. There’s always a pecking order. Always. The circle shifts as contenders glance around. Eyes flick to me, then away. I brace myself, uncertain if I’ll be picked as an easy target or if I’ll go unmatched.

Please don’t pick me. Let me slip through this round.

“Pair off,” Rehn says. “I want sweat. I want bruises. I want you all limping by sunset.”

People move. Fast. Lyra and Elira grab partners immediately and I watch as the others form groups until only three of us remain. Kaelen—a man who is easily seven feet tall—and Judgmental DipshitTMVaro, who strolls toward me with that same easy gait as always, twirling a wooden blade between his fingers, and me.

“Seems we’re stuck,” he says, mock-sighing. “Try not to cry.”

“I’ll do my best,” I mutter, unwilling to back down. I grip the short, double-edged blade they handed me. It’s lighter than I’d like, and the handle is too wide for my fingers. Too easy to drop. Too easy to lose. I miss the dagger Caziel gave me. Lesson learned, don’t leave it behind in my bunk again.

He smiles as he spins his blade in one easy arc, the motion fluid, almost lazy.

“The softling burns,” he says under his breath, low enough that no one else hears. “Let’s see if she bleeds.”

We square up under Captain Rehn’s glare.

My heart pounds too fast. My stance is off—I know it is—but I try to plant my feet and angle my blade like Caziel drilled into me back in those lonely, bruising sessions before the flame. I don’t feel ready. Not even close. But at least I don’t feel frozen. Varo’s grin is sharp.

“So. The flame-kissed human wants to play.”

“Just needed something to do with my morning,” I reply, voice dry, even as my heart pounds.

Rehn’s bark splits the air. “Begin.”

Varo is faster than I expect. And I expected a lot. I block the first strike, barely, stumbling two steps back as my wrist jars with the impact. Too soft. Too slow. The practice blade shakes in my hand. I grit my teeth and steady it. He circles, loose-limbed, relaxed. He is not even trying. Not really. Just testing.

“Didn’t expect you to stay upright.” I didn’t either.

He’s fast, but I’ve fought faster. Caz is faster, but he’s easier to read. Maybe that’s by design. It feels disloyal to compare him to another. Varo’s style is teasing. He feints and flourishes, like he wants to draw me out and then punish me for trying. I stay compact. Defensive. Absorbing hits on the flat of my blade, never reaching, never rushing.

“You waiting for permission?” he taunts, swinging wide.

“No,” I grunt, ducking the arc. “Just watching you waste energy.”

He grins, and lunges in for real. We lock up, but he’s significantly stronger and better skilled than I am. His wooden blade slides under my guard, catches me in the ribs. Hard. My breath stutters, and I stagger, but do not drop. I twist, pivot off the pain. My blade skims off the top of his thigh—barely—and he laughs.

“She bites.”

“You started it.”

He lunges. I brace and take the hit on my shoulder, the force driving me back hard. Pain blooms, but still I keep my feet. I shove forward, pivoting awkwardly, and sweep my leg low. He stumbles. Not much. But enough. I don’t have the edge. Not in skill. Not in endurance. But I’m stubborn, and he hasn’t figured that out yet.

Another exchange—parry, strike, deflect. I grunt as he gets under my guard, the staff kissing my ribs just above the burn scar. My breath catches. I see it in his face—he felt that weakness.No time to let it show. He’ll come for that spot again. I lunge, sloppy, and to my shock, the hilt of my blade clips his jaw. Blood beads on his lip. He wipes it with a knuckle, eyes gleaming.

Rehn’s voice booms across the ring. “Break!”

Varo wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lucky hit.”

“You keep giving them to me,” I say. He bares his blood-stained teeth at me in a grin, clearly remembering the last time I managed to land a blow on him. All the way back in the glowing ring. It feels like a lifetime ago. The other contenders are watching now. He swings again. I deflect, clumsy but solid, and sidestep his follow-up. We dance. Sort of. He leads, and I follow, trying to read the rhythm of it, trying not to show I’m already winded. I try to breathe through the ache in my ribs. Try not to suck in air like a waterlogged shop vac.

Captain Rehn’s voice cuts in. “Break.”

We step back. My blade lowers. So does his.

The other contenders are watching now. Not openly. Not obviously. But I feel it. See it in the turn of Lyra’s head. In Elira’s still hands, hovering over his notebook. I didn’t win. I didn’t even really impress anyone. But I didn’t fold. And in this place, that’s a language.

I’m still catching my breath when he appears at the edge of the ring. Caziel doesn’t walk so much as arrive. One moment it’s just us and the sun and the sand, and the next he’s there, at the edge of the training pit, arms crossed like a carved statue come to life. Cloak brushing the backs of his boots. Shadows curling just a little too long around him. A flicker of motion runs through the contenders. Not fear. Not deference. Just awareness. A predator is in the ring now, even if he’s not baring teeth.