—
Jond’s fight was over quickly. Efie had gone in strong, her blows forcing Jond to go on the defensive as she inched him closer to the edge of the ring. He glanced behind him and saw his predicament. He needed to reclaim ground, so he pulled a move Anoor had seen Sylah do more than once. He feinted to the right, distracting his attacker, then dived into a roll, sweeping Efie’s legs out from under her. The move was executed in a blink of an eye.
Efie jumped up from her sprawl quickly. Her dagger lashed out toward Jond’s helm, trying to knock it from his face so she could get to the skin underneath.
She didn’t get a chance as Jond’s axe clattered against her armor, again and again, the force of its blows leaving dents across her beautiful breastplate. Shards of rose gold glittered on the ground, and Anoor mourned the exquisite armor.
The crowd screamed as Efie fell to her knees. Anoor wasn’t sure if they were crying out of anger or out of joy. Either way it sounded bloodthirsty.
It seemed to Anoor that Efie was giving up too easily, because a moment later Jond had nicked the soft bit of skin between her helm and her chest plate. Her red blood swelled from between the crack, dribbling over the rose gold armor. His name lit up on the leader board, the runelamps so bright you could barely read his name. It didn’t matter because the crowd was shouting it.
“Jond Alnua, Jond Alnua, Jond Alnua.”
Jond helped Efie up, and she removed her helm for the healers who had rushed forward. Once they patched her up, Efie took a bow with a flourish, her red braids surfing the ground as she dipped low. It reminded Anoor of a griot coming to the end of a story.
Jond had already moved back to his bench, his axe balanced across his knees. He was smiling, his grin crooked and alluring.
Anoor looked up to the podium and saw Uka was leaning forward watching Jond. She clapped politely.
The charcoal ring was checked, Efie’s specks of blood and armor cleaned away. Now it was Anoor’s time to take her stand.
Yanis wasn’t wearing his helm. Stupid and vain.
“Good luck, Anoor,” he said, and Anoor hated herself for smiling back. She was just glad he couldn’t see it beneath the helm.
He held the jambiya across his body in the position he’d taught her, curved inward. All of a sudden, he stumbled as if the tidewind had knocked him sideways. He stood up, planted his feet again, still smiling, but a small frown crinkled his perfect brow.
Anoor focused, pushing thoughts of him from her mind. Instead, she pulled on the anger like strings in her bow, pulling them taut, ready to release in contained movements. Just like Sylah had taught her.
The horn sounded, and Anoor lunged with the sword.
The sound of her blade crashing on his chest plate reverberated throughout the arena. He jumped back, but not fast enough to miss her side thrust. It pushed him to the ground, but he kicked dust up into her eyes as he fell. The sand glanced off the glass visor, but the moment’s hesitation was enough for him to jump up.
He swayed as he tried to regain his footing. Was he drunk? On drugs?
“What did you do, Anoor? What did you do to me?” He shouted the words across the ring. He was no longer smiling. But still attractive. Asshole.
Anoor took advantage of his mania and pushed forward. He parried her blows as she swooped in low, left and right. He made an unstable stab toward the small bit of exposed skin where the gauntlet met the elbow joint, but the jambiya glanced off the metal.
Anoor blocked his next attempt and pivoted on her heel to slam the sword across his side. It was the second time she’d landed a crushing blow on that area of his armor and she could see the joints weakening at the breast plate, just like Sylah had said they would.
She just needed to hit him there a few more times to expose the skin. Then she could pierce him like she so desperately wanted. Sweat stung her eyes, blurring together with tears of anger.
She screamed, throwing her weight into another swing, but he preempted her move and slipped his feet under hers, sending her sprawling on her back.
With a growl, he launched himself toward her. Anoor’s sword arm was trapped under the weight of his body as he used the jambiya to lift her helm. His smile was back, but his gaze was glassy, like the pupils were cast in ice.
She could not let him cut her.
His blade pushed the helm all the way off. The rush of air on Anoor’s face was a welcome respite in the chaos of the moment. Anoor slackened her muscles, letting him savor his winning moment as the blade came down on the side of her cheek.
While he had been putting on the theatrics, Anoor had slipped her hand from her gauntlet and away from the weight of his body. The slackening of her muscles had given her the space to wriggle the hand out and around to the front of her face where she now held the hilt of the jambiya.
Whether it was the surprise or his affliction, he wasn’t prepared for Anoor’s counter-thrust.
“Always point the curve away from the body,” Anoor said. The curved tip of the blade had pressed into Yanis’s forehead, yielding the smallest drop of blood.
But it was enough.