CHAPTER 326: SWORD FIGHT II

The shout rose from the stands—sharp, spiteful, the kind of voice that wants a crowd to bend to its anger.

"She used magic on that sword! And she used it while fighting! That’s not fair!" the man yelled, and it spread like dry tinder.

Heads turned, lips peeled back in suspicion, insults ricocheted down the rows. The accusation was precise, murderous. They wanted a sin to point at, an excuse to tear me down.

I let the laugh roll out of me—short, incredulous, a sound that tasted like whiskey and amused contempt.

If I used magic, did they think I would let the cut on my cheek happen?

I respected the rules of the sword session, as far as I was concerned.

The fellow who spat the claim looked ridiculous by the way, veins standing at his temple, eyes wild with the satisfaction of being heard. His face was flushed, raw with the hunger of the mob. A few men nearby nodded, mouths hard, and others joined him, fingers thrown wide like they had discovered a religion.

Let them chant. Let them build their pyre. I didn’t bother defending myself.

The crowd was a swelling thing; their voices would drown me if I tried to answer. I had no intention of raising my voice and granting them the drama they wanted. Instead I scanned the dais and found Adam’s face among the royals—a slash of cool in the warm, hot noise.

He raised one hand, a subtle, single motion that asked for silence like a general calming ranks. The field’s din ebbed to a degree.

He gestured me forward with his chin: Draw close.

I told a fuming Isla to return to the bleachers, and walked to the edge of the field, letting the hush fall like a curtain.

Adam’s voice carried across the center, even, clipped with authority. "We will keep order," he said. "If there is a grievance, it will be resolved fairly. Sage... proof will be given."

Proof. As if truth were a thing you could hand over like a coin.

They wanted spectacle. Fine.

Adam motioned to the steward, and another sword was laid at my feet—heavier, wider than the one I’d favored earlier. They also called for another contestant.

The steward announced the terms, loud enough that every murmur pinched into silence: no magic, no cloaks, no hidden blades. We will be watched closely too. Or rather I.

Spectators leaned forward; bets shifted like the tide.

The man who’d been my last opponent could not keep his mouth shut. He strutted forward, all swagger, and taunted. "Let’s see how you pull it off again, cheat..."

I scowled, turning to face him. "Two against one then... are you interested?"

Silence cloaked the field. My voice had carried enough.

He grinned, a grin caramel with cruelty. "Of course, my dear. As you wish."

The steward blinked, looked at me, then nodded, seemingly bewildered by the sudden appetite for violence.

Nobody stopped it. The kings—Adam included—did not intervene. The crowd loved the idea the most: red meat and chaos.

I smiled. Smiling because the whole thing pleased me. They thought they could overwhelm me with numbers and outrage. They wanted me dead. They would get something else.

They brought out a bulky contest—broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, a man who smelled of sweat and iron. He flexed, the grin of a man who believed size solved everything. While the runner-up cracked his knuckles like a promise.

I hefted the new blade, feeling its honest weight settle into my hand. It sang beneath my fingers. I turned it there and here, a slow, showy rotation that was a provocation as much as a preparation, margining the theater.

"Are you scared?" I asked the lean man when he taunted again, amusement curling my lips.

He spat on the ground, hissing, then lunged with a reckless flourish meant to end me quick. The crowd roared; some called my name like a prayer, others like a curse.

The first seconds were theatre: I parried, kept the bulky man at bay with wide, ringing sweeps. I toyed with them, meeting their strikes and stepping just out of reach, letting their momentum wash past me harmlessly. I taunted, letting a laugh slip free when a blade grazed the air where my cheek had been a heartbeat before.

This was the dance I’d been bred for: misdirection, rhythm, the geometry of blades. I was enjoying myself.

Then the bulky man became angry, and charged with more weight and force; the lean one moved like a serpent, eyes glittering, intent on a kill that would make the people smile. I feinted, let the bulky man commit.

He overreached; his blade thundered past. I used his momentum to spin, and the lean man’s opportunity opened—he burst in with a knife-snap strike that scored across my cheek.

The cut bit hot. Blood ran warm, a bright comet down my face.

Cheers shifted into a low, dangerous hum. The brides clapped delicately.

The wound, however, slapped electricity through me. I tasted iron and something older: the thrill of being seen, of being tested.

Anger tuned me like a string. I stopped playing.

My feet found an older rhythm, the one that lived in tendon and memory. I stopped juking and began to hurt the men in ways that would matter: I targeted sinew and joint, the weak angles that turn a strong man into meat.

I moved like someone who had learned to make violence clean: blade across a tendon, a slice at a hamstring, a cut through the inside of a knee. Both men bled, voices strangled into curses. My sword flicked, bright as a silver tongue, and each strike was a punctuation.

It was a ballet, in a way—cruel choreography. I hummed under my breath, a small thread of melody the way Freda used to hum while she taught me. The sound steadied me.

I angled a long cut that opened yellow muscle on the bulky man’s thigh; he staggered, one hand clamped uselessly at the wound. The lean man tried to duck beneath my guard, but I stepped inside his line, drove my blade across the exposed side of his ribs in a motion sharp and exquisite. He gasped, the breath leaving him like a struck bell.

Silence slid across the crowd. Blood painted the dirt—a slow, clinical map of bodies being undone.

They fought back though, bruised and furious. The lean one lunged, knife flashing for my throat. I tipped my head, let the blade sing past, and with my free hand—not magic, only muscles and will—I seized his wrist, twisted, and the knife skittered out of his fingers and into the dust.

I used that momentum to roll his balance and shove him down.

The bulky man tried to rise, shaking with pain, but my foot found the tendon behind his knee and I pushed. He went down in a crashing, breathless heap.

They both crawled, seeking their swords, seeking salvation.

Meanwhile I moved like an executioner. It was time to end it.

The blade flashed twice—surgical cuts aimed at the artery-rich necks. Heads came free with a small, wet sound, their bodies lolling like cut stalks. I picked both heads in my hands, warmth and weight and the shocked blankness of their faces looking up at me.

Then I raised the heads, the crimson bright against my palms, and smiled at Adam. The message needed no translation.

"Is this enough proof?" I asked, voice cold and amused.