by Jacinta Jade
‘And if they do actually manage to win?’
Loce shrugged. ‘It hasn’t happened yet. But I imagine Chezran would be extremely displeased with whichever archon or captain who was defeated.’
This made Atalia’s face pop into Siraay’s mind. ‘So, you all do this?’ she asked carefully.
Loce shook his head. ‘No. The captains are expected to, but an archon does not have to do so.’
Siraay noted his emphasis on the ‘have’. Obviously, the captains would ensure they excelled at the challenge, leading divisions as they did. And if Loce fought against the soldiers, then chances were that Pyron did as well. She hoped she would get the chance to watch him lose.
‘But enough about exercises,’ stated Loce, switching back to the matter at hand. He grinned. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’
His casual words were all the warning Siraay had before he launched himself at her, and immediately, she was on the defensive against his attack, her feet backpedalling as she tried to put space between them so she could recover enough to defend against his blows before attempting a counterattack.
But Loce never gave her the chance. Gone was the stumbling, unfocused male who had just made it through Resistance training with her former self. And in his place was a male who used a balance of strength and speed to drive her backwards by raining down blows upon her, so that she was forced to divert all her energy to deflection.
Then Loce kicked out at Siraay’s forward leg, and as the blow connected, she dropped to one knee.
Another foot impacted against her chest quickly after, and the next thing Siraay knew, she was lying flat on her back, Loce’s knees pinning her arms while he grinned down from above.
This time, Siraay’s admiration was genuine. ‘Guess you were holding back quite a bit, then.’
Loce’s grin grew wider, and he opened his mouth to say something, but rumbling laughter interrupted him.
From her position on the floor, Siraay tilted her head back.
Now wearing a shirt, his arms crossed in front of his broad chest, Pyron leaned against the wall of the room, his eyes on them as he laughed. ‘I see that you’re only really a fighter in your other form, lady.’
Loce jumped to his feet, freeing Siraay from her position on the ground, and she rolled, coming smoothly up onto her feet.
‘I am a skilled fighter regardless of my form,’ she replied archly. ‘But yes—this body needs more training, if that’s what you mean.’ She looked Pyron contemptuously up and down. ‘Not all of us have had the luxury of lazing around a palace doing nothing but fighting our own shadow each day.’
That seemed to hit a sensitive spot—Pyron’s mouth thinned, and from behind his mask, his blue eyes turned from amused to stormy. ‘I’ll be happy to take over your training and show you how much real experience I have,’ he challenged.
Siraay ignored the warning in his voice and merely smiled sweetly at him. ‘Thanks, but Loce seems more than capable. Besides, you’ve already tired yourself out—I wouldn’t want to exhaust you.’
A stifled snort from behind Siraay almost made her turn and grin at Loce, but she was too busy enjoying the tightening of Pyron’s jaw.
He pushed himself away from the wall and took a menacing step towards her, but then his mouth shifted quickly as steps sounded behind Siraay, and an instant later he was back to his usual smirking, casual self.
Siraay didn’t need to turn to identify the owner of those steps—the spacing between each solid footfall, the quick but not rushed pace, and the confident balance of the rhythm told her plenty. Yet she twisted away from Pyron anyway, both to annoy him and to smile coyly at Chezran.
Loce was quick to be the first to speak. ‘Morning, lord.’
Siraay was interested to see that Chezran was also dressed in training gear this morning, but what delighted her the most was that his eyes drifted to her first before he even acknowledged Loce’s greeting.
‘Morning,’ he said in that silky voice of his. ‘As you’re already training with Lady Siraay, I won’t interfere.’ Chezran’s eyes moved to Pyron. ‘Have you completed your own training already, or would you be up for a couple of rounds?’
The question was asked casually, and Chezran peered with mild interest at his chief archon as he straightened one handguard.
But Siraay thought there was some other emotion layered beneath the question.
Pyron didn’t reply for the space of a breath, maybe also sensing something, but he gathered himself swiftly. ‘No, I’m ready to go.’ He shot a quick glare at Siraay.
Chezran nodded and, pivoting, strode away to the other end of the training hall without engaging anyone further.
An instant later, Pyron passed by Siraay to follow his lord, close enough that she could feel the air from him as he breezed by, not quite touching her.
A subtle, but certain, threat. Siraay looked after the pair as they moved away, not sure what to make of their exchange.
Loce noted her glance. ‘Lord Chezran takes his training very seriously. He has to—being lord and all.’
Siraay nodded, then forced herself to turn away from the now distant pair and meet Loce’s eyes. ‘Shall we continue?’
***
Siraay lost awareness of the room around herself for what seemed like a long time as she reengaged with Loce in hand-to-hand combat, her perception of her surroundings shrinking to a total focus on Loce’s body—especially his shoulders, torso, and feet.
It was something her former self had learned from Wexner. While most people automatically stared at the face of their opponent, skilled fighters focused on the shoulders and chest area. While a knowledgeable fighter might be able to divine clues about another fighter’s intentions from their face, an experienced fighter’s face was usually the last part of the body to convey what their intent might be.
And when you had a sliver of an instant to react to an attack, being able to know what was coming—from watching what the shoulders of a person could reveal—could mean the difference between survival or death.
And Loce was a skilled fighter. Although he appeared to be looking at her face, Siraay could tell that his focus was on the line of her shoulders, given the way he moved in sync with her.
This time, they started sparring at a more gradual pace, trading blows for a number of rounds and breaking apart before they would leap in again once more.
Slowly, the pace of their fight began to increase, the necklace at Siraay’s throat bouncing with her more sudden movements.
Siraay was doing better this time around, now that she knew of Loce’s skill and what to expect. Yet she could feel that her body, in comparison to his, was still slower, and far more clumsy. Not that she was unskilled—she wasn’t, and had proved this against the Xarcon soldiers in the arena the day before.
But when compared to this demonstration of speed and power, hidden so well within a slight frame … Siraay gritted her teeth and pushed her body harder and faster, promising herself that she would work hard at her training until she could best Loce.
Anything less would be unacceptable to her.
In the meantime, she used her agility and flexibility to dodge what attacks she could, making sure she never stayed still long enough for him to be able to get the drop on her.
This meant she had to work her body twice as hard, but after a number of long rounds that left her gear soaked in sweat and her limbs shaky, Loce still had not managed to pin her down again. Not that she was without bruises from the number of times his quick hands had found their mark on her body, or from the heavy blows he had landed with his legs. But each was a lesson in combat that she could learn from.
As they separated a final time, both breathing hard, the rest of the training area came back into Siraay’s awareness, and as she brushed a few wet, dangling strands of her hair away from her face, she heard the sounds of other heavy breathing and thumps coming from behind her.
She turned.
Her own sweaty condition a
nd state of exhaustion was forgotten in an instant as she took in the view before her, her eyes widening.
Chezran and Pyron were sparring, but it was at such an intensity and with such aggression that she could only watch, breathless, as they both attacked, defended, and countered over and over.
Bare-chested once more, fresh sweat shining on the muscles in his chest and stomach, Pyron’s hands were a blur as they whipped through the air for Chezran’s head, each strike accurate and deadly, his approach heated and angry.
Siraay gasped quietly as one particular blow was thrown with such speed and power that anyone standing before it would have had their head crushed.
Yet the chief archon’s blow never hit its target.
His own hands and long arms a blur, Chezran swept aside each blow with deft but powerful flicks of his hands, arms, and legs, exerting himself just enough to deflect or move slightly so that Pyron’s blows would whisper past their target.
Not that he deflected everything—Siraay actually saw him ignore some blows so that he could instead deliver his own devastating attacks.
And if Pyron fought with heat and purposeful aggression, Chezran fought with a cold, calm intent that set the hair rising on Siraay’s arms. If she had had any previous doubts as to the lord’s fighting ability, and his entitlement to his position, they were wiped away as she watched the fight unfold before her.
The two males were highly skilled and evenly matched, but even to her eyes, there was something that she couldn’t quite define that seemed to give Chezran a slight edge.
Loce helped her to piece it together as he moved up beside her. ‘It’s something, isn’t it?’
Siraay nodded, unable to look away from the two males. ‘They do this every morning?’
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Loce bob his head. ‘Almost. Unless Lord Chezran is called away on urgent business. But otherwise, as the two most skilled fighters we have, and, of course, owing to their positions here, they fight often.’
Siraay absorbed his words, then shook her head in wonderment. ‘They’re so evenly matched.’
‘Yes, but only when it comes to skill.’
She turned her head at his words, frowning at Loce momentarily before turning back to the fight still playing out before her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Chezran was made to train for what Xarcon is trying to achieve since he took his first steps. While skill develops over time, there is a limit to it—not that I can match either of them yet.’
Siraay frowned as she watched the blows being traded before her, strong muscles flexing and contracting, intent directing each blow with accuracy. ‘So, you’re saying that they’ve both reached the top of their fighting ability?’
Beside her, Loce shook his head. ‘No. I’m saying that you can have all the skill in the world, but what makes the most difference is experience. And in that regard, Chezran can’t be beaten.’
Siraay observed the fight more closely, not watching each blow, but trying to get a sense of the fight overall. And after a moment more, she finally began to see what Loce was trying to get at.
While there was no division of skill between the two males, and in fact, Pyron might have had more power than Chezran due to his aggression, the lord’s more icy approach seemed more relaxed. Not that he wasn’t taking it seriously—there was no doubt that each male was intent on knocking his opponent into the ground. But he did appear as if … he was waiting?
It was a poor way to describe it, and Siraay shook her head a little. Chezran was fighting with pure focus, but it seemed as if he knew the script of the fight …
Maybe that was it. His anticipation was better.
‘Something seems to be driving them particularly hard this morning,’ Loce commented under his breath to her.
Siraay wondered at his quiet tone, given they were half a room away, but was even more curious about his words. ‘Is something about the way they are fighting different today?’
Loce nodded slightly beside her. ‘There’s a different feel today … ah.’
Siraay frowned at him. ‘What?’
Loce smirked a little in her direction. ‘I think Lord Chezran might have overheard more of your … discussion with Pyron this morning than he let on.’
Siraay raised her eyebrows, silently asking Loce to elaborate, but he simply shook his head and jerked his head back at the continuing fight, only saying, ‘This will be interesting.’
Siraay refocused on the battling males, annoyed at Loce for his secretiveness and at herself at being ignorant of his meaning, but she remained keen on trying to observe what Loce had obviously already identified.
It was during one of Pyron’s vicious attacks that it happened. The flow of the fight had so far been balanced, two forces of matching skill giving and taking the lead as they switched smoothly between defence and offence.
Then the balance snapped when Chezran struck a flat-handed blow to Pyron’s chest.
As soon as it happened, Loce’s previous comments about Chezran’s experience clicked in Siraay’s head. Chezran had been reading the fight from start to finish, waiting for this moment.
The lord’s hand moved with such speed that Pyron’s body was thrown backwards before Siraay’s mind even registered the blow.
But Chezran wasn’t done.
As soon as Pyron’s feet left the ground, the lord was moving, leaping forwards through the air.
And as his opponent hit the ground, Chezran landed just behind him and, rolling, came up with one hand wrapped around the chief archon’s throat.
Loce inhaled sharply as Chezran’s face became hard as stone.
The Lord of Xarcon bent his head down to Pyron’s face and muttered quietly to his second-in-command for a moment.
The tension in the air was thick, and Siraay didn’t dare move while the two males were face-to-face, Pyron’s body tensed and Chezran’s hand squeezing tightly.
Then the chief archon muttered an even quieter response, and Chezran relaxed instantly, releasing his grip and standing, even offering a hand to Pyron, who took it and stood.
When Chezran shifted and saw Siraay watching with Loce, he smiled smoothly at them while Pyron strode swiftly towards the exit.
‘Pyron is an excellent fighter but sometimes gets carried away,’ Chezran said, moving gracefully towards Siraay and Loce. And even though he was breathing heavily, his shirt dark with sweat, he seemed otherwise unperturbed by the intense sparring match that had lasted longer than even Siraay’s multiple rounds with Loce.
Something to remember, Siraay thought, impressed.
Loce quickly nodded his head to his lord. ‘As always, a great fight.’ Loce glanced at Siraay before turning back to Chezran. ‘I’ll be happy to continue sparring with Lady Siraay to complete her training in the upcoming days.’
Chezran nodded. ‘I think that’s a good idea. Though, from what I observed, the lady’s skill is increasing rapidly.’ Chezran turned his eyes fully on her now, and Siraay felt the intensity of that gaze in her bones.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, smiling. ‘Watching you fight was most … instructive.’ She drew the last word out almost playfully. And was it her imagination or did a slight shadow cross Loce’s face at her words?
‘I’ll need to excuse myself, lord, as my duties need me elsewhere,’ Loce said, nodding to Chezran before he pivoted and began moving in the direction of the door.
Which left Siraay and Chezran alone.
Those dark eyes were fixed on hers, and Siraay returned his gaze steadily until she spoke, almost without realising. ‘I would be keen to learn more about the city and operations here.’
True—but it was not what was really on her mind. Yet she had felt the need to break the silence that had hung between them like a tangible line.
Chezran gave her that knowing smile of his. ‘Freshen up, eat, and then I’ll be happy to increase your knowledge.’
Siraay smiled back, dipped her head, and departed.
&nb
sp; CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ON HER WAY back to her room, a dedicated escort of two following, Siraay’s triumphant smile became a thoughtful press of her lips.
Chezran prized her, that much was obvious, but she also needed him to elevate her in his own mind from mere asset to … counterpart? Mate? Although he has said the words back at her awakening, he still obviously had some doubts.
Just how close would she need to get to him to obtain what she wanted?
Not that it mattered, of course. She was willing to do whatever was needed to secure her place as the future queen of Kaslon.
Leaving her escort outside her door, Siraay breezed into her room and began peeling off her sweat-stained training gear, not waiting for the door to close fully as she began stripping herself naked, clearly surprising Trelar, who had apparently just finished making the bed.
‘My lady,’ she began stammering, but Siraay waved her off.
‘I need to bathe quickly and change into something suitable for a day of meetings. Something practical but with a touch of regal to it,’ she mused as Trelar walked promptly up the steps to the sunken bath to start the water flowing.
‘Of course, lady. I’ll pull out some options for you.’ Trelar’s voice was businesslike once more as Siraay climbed the steps up to the bath. Extending one leg, she tested the water, then proceeded to step fully into the still-filling bath as she judged the water warm enough to begin washing. With quick hands, she proceeded to scrub the sweat and grime from her body, only pausing to turn the taps off once the bath was full enough for her to bathe easily in.
Once her body was clean, she turned her attention to her hair. She might not have cared too much about her looks if it weren’t for two things—that it was her appearance that would help her win Chezran’s affection and that presenting the right image here was nothing to be taken lightly.