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16

SEREN

S weat trickles down my spine, muscles taut and burning from exertion. The training ground sprawls before me, its stone floor polished smooth from centuries of warriors honing their craft. The sky above is bruised with the last remnants of twilight, deep purple bleeding into black, the first stars winking between the shifting clouds.

Xirath watches from the edge of the ring, arms folded, expression unreadable.

I resist the urge to glare at him, though it takes every ounce of control I have.

“Again,” he commands, voice as even as if he were discussing the weather.

My fingers tighten around the short sword he’d tossed me earlier, the weight still unfamiliar. The grip is rough against my palm, the balance slightly off or maybe it’s just me.

I lunge, aiming for the straw target at the ring. The blade slices through the humid night, but the angle is wrong, too shallow. The edge barely nicks the target’s side, the force behind my strike dissipating before it can do real damage.

A slow clap echoes behind me.

“You strike like a human.” Xirath’s tail flicks against the hard stone, the sound a deliberate mockery. “And a poorly trained one at that.”

Teeth grinding, I turn to face him. “Apologies, my lord, for not being a centuries-old snake with a fetish for violence.”

His lips twitch, not quite a smirk, but close enough to make my irritation curdle into something sharper.

“I do not expect centuries of skill,” he muses. “I expect you to learn.”

“And what, exactly, do you expect me to learn?” The sword spins once in my hand, grip adjusting as I step back into a ready stance. “How to serve as a more entertaining toy in your pit of bloodshed?”

Golden eyes narrow slightly, gleaming in the dim torchlight. “If you prefer the alternative, I could simply toss you back to the next pack of mercenaries that comes sniffing.”

My fingers twitch against the hilt.

He wouldn’t.

Would he?

Xirath steps forward, and despite every instinct screaming at me to stand my ground, my muscles tighten in wary anticipation.

“The arena is not merely bloodshed,” he says, voice dropping just enough to demand my attention. “It is discipline. It is strategy. It is knowing when to strike and when to bait.” His hand flicks toward my grip on the sword. “And it is not whatever that is.”

I roll my eyes but shift my stance as he moves to circle me, his presence pressing against me like a closing snare.

“There are only two outcomes in a fight, little mouse,” he continues, pacing slowly, measuring. “You win, or you die.”

A short laugh escapes me. “Dramatic.”

He moves fast.

One moment, he stands an arm’s length away. The next, his tail coils around my ankle, yanking my balance from beneath me.

The sword clatters against the stone as I crash onto my back, the impact knocking the breath from my lungs.

Xirath crouches above me, his face calm, almost bored. “Was that dramatic?”

Fury surges, white-hot and relentless. I lash out, knee aiming for his ribs, but he’s already gone, already back on his feet before I can land a strike.

The tail releases me just as quickly, but the message lingers.

I shove myself upright, grabbing the discarded sword with a sharp motion. “I wasn’t ready.”

“Your enemy won’t wait for readiness.”

Gritting my teeth, I step back into stance. “Again.”

This time, when he moves, I anticipate the strike. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But enough that when his tail flicks toward my legs, I pivot instead of stumbling, steel flashing in retaliation.

A hum of approval, so faint I almost miss it, vibrates through the humid night.

“Better.”

Sweat beads along my brow as we continue, the movements shifting into something less punishment, more practice. I adjust to the weight of the sword, to the tension in my limbs as I react instead of merely enduring.

Xirath is merciless, relentless, but not careless. He tests. He watches. He waits to see what I do with the lesson.

The more we fight, the more I understand.

The sword is not just an extension of my body.

It is a promise.

A way to say, I am not prey.

The thrill of it licks against my ribs, dangerous and unfamiliar.

I am not afraid.

I am alive.

The realization makes me reckless.

I lunge harder, my swing aimed for his exposed ribs.

He catches my wrist before the blade can land, claws pressing enough to show me the difference between our strengths.

My breath comes hard, my body humming with exertion, but I do not look away from him.

Neither does he.

“You enjoyed that,” he murmurs.

I should deny it.

Instead, I twist my arm free, stepping back with a slow smile curling my lips. “Maybe.”

Xirath’s gaze darkens, unreadable. “Good.”

My pulse kicks against my ribs, but I lift the sword again.

“Again,” I say, voice steady.

His smirk is a quiet, dangerous thing.

This time, he does not hold back.