CHAPTER 325: SWORD FIGHT

Sword fight. At last. I mused over the irony of this session as I went to the rack to pick a sword for my next fight.

Since the contest started, contestants had never been banned from coming to a fight with weapons—some small pen knives hidden in sleeves, some pencil-thin rods disguised as walking sticks.

I could see why this was called the sword fight though: the weapons were honest here, blades you could see and respect.

The arena smelled of metal and old blood; standing on the field, even to one side, I could almost taste it in the air. There were caked marks on the soil where bodies had fallen.

Eleven contestants dead so far, Isla had briefed me, her voice calm as if reading market results. The brutality matched Rachel’s warnings.

I picked a sword from the rack, felt its balance, turning it in my hands like one appraises a jewel. Light, yes—but the feel was right. I brushed a fingertip along the fuller, whispered a small charm across the edge. Subtle—a sharpening really. Enough.

"Do you like our picks?" Timothy’s voice came up at my back. I hadn’t heard him approach. Sneaky devil.

"Could be better," I said, shrugging without turning. "But I can manage."

He scoffed. "You’re not easy to please."

"I don’t aim to please." I countered, eyes on the field.

Without giving Timothy any more attention, I returned to the middle of the field, still checking out my sword.

The crowd shifted meanwhile; glances skittered toward the contestants. Some faces were eager, hungry for spectacle; others melted with recognition. The royals were being seated now—the triplets swept in, brides shining at their sides.

I kept my eyes on Adam until he found me, until the weight in his gaze lingered. I winked by habit. He turned away, to his bride, ritual and refusal.

"Hey — look at me!"

I raised a brow and turned toward my opponent.

He stood a long stride away, lean but taut as a drawn bow. His name had been murmured by fighters the night before; a veteran of last year’s season and runner-up, he moved with that careless confidence of men who’d seen victory close.

His cheekbones cut shadows under the sun, his arms corded, and he wore a thin smile that smelled of contempt. He carried no flamboyance—a plain black tunic, greaves, a short sword at his hip—but even plainness can be dangerous.

When our eyes met, something in me flickered: recognition that he’d been the type to plant surprises, to hand a sleeping gift disguised as hospitality. How many had been folded into the dirt after trusting his plain looks?

"You’ve had your little wins," he called, voice carrying. "Lucky scraps. Don’t think it’ll happen again. Tonight ends quickly for pretty girls who think they’re invincible."

Oh, not plain in the mouth then.

He laughed; a few in the crowd barked along. The brides in their velvet seats smirked.

I smirked too. Underestimation is a crude surgical tool. I let him talk. Let him underestimate me. Let him paint his own blindfold.

We took the center, measured distance. I settled into my stance: feet shoulder-width, weight slightly forward, sword angled for defense and quick response. The metal sang faintly in my grip.

Around us the murmurs stitched into a single heat—anticipation, wagers dropping into pockets, curses. Then the bells: a single clear stroke. The fight began.

He lunged first, a probing thrust meant to test my guard. I brought the blade up, the parry crisp, steel clashing silver on silver. His blade had a hungry edge, and he pressed, forcing my feet back.

I felt the soil shift under my soles, the familiar animal rhythm of combat settling into my limbs.

He feinted to the left—an old trick—but my blade answered, turning his sword aside and slicing a shallow nick along his sleeve. A hiss from the crowd. He scowled, surprised at the contact.

He retaliated with speed, a flurry meant to overwhelm: slash, backstep, lunge. I moved like water around rock, slipping between beats, meeting his strikes with redirected energy rather than brute force.

When he overcommitted, I dropped my blade low and swept, a clean riposte that caught his forearm. The blade slipped, he grunted; red bloomed where metal kissed skin. The crowd inhaled as one.

He recovered, anger sharpening his attacks into something more dangerous.

From the corner of my vision I saw Adam watching, an unreadable shadow in his face.

The man before me pulled a shorter blade from his belt, a wicked little thing made for close work. He pressed hard, meeting me—knife flashed; I felt metal whisper past my cheek. Pain flared: a shallow cut, hot and bright. Blood congealed on my skin and dripped to the ground. The arena roared, half in delight, half in wishing I was done already.

My wound burned, but I let it ground me instead of distracting me. I tasted the salt on my lips and smiled inwardly. Let them hear the blood; let them feel the danger. I tightened my grip and let instinct lead.

A feint, then a lunge—and I moved. I stepped offline, dropped the point of my blade under his arm, and with a quick, practiced twist I used his momentum against him. The short sword spun free from his grasp and clattered like a silver fish into the dirt. He cursed.

His eyes widened the fraction of a second before I closed the distance and caught his throat with the flat of my blade, not to kill but to end the fight.

Pressure, controlled; he coughed, hands scrabbling, legs buckling. I pressed, feeling his breath rasp, feeling the fight drain from him.

"Yield," I said simply. My voice did not need to be loud; it carried across the hush.

He slumped, defeated but alive, and the crowd fractured into shouts—some booing, some cheering a triumph they’d not expected.

The brides’ faces were tight, disbelief and anger mingled. Adam’s expression was unreadable, though when his eyes met mine they burned with something close to respect.

I lowered my sword and turned, wiping blood from my cheek with the back of my hand like it was nothing. And I let the victory slide over me—arrogance, and a clean satisfaction the way a blade feels when it bites true. The crowd wanted spectacle; I’d given them a lesson.

As the announcer declared my name, Isla met me at the edge of the field with water and a grin that could split a stone. I drank, shoulders loosening.

Well, until I heard the shout.