Chapter 29 #3
I swallow at his proximity. He’s right there.
Blocking everything. He’s so close, I can smell him, and—he smells like his soap.
Like he used it instead of the ones here.
I breathe it in, fighting back a groan, burying the shameful memories of my lips against his throat. “My—my blade is with the blacksmith.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Then get it.”
I don’t even know where the blacksmith is, but I make to step around his body, mostly just to get away from him and the confusing thoughts that bloom in his presence, but he takes a step and cages me in.
“You said—”
He tilts his head at me in a clear challenge. That’s when I remember the times he called to his blade—how it spiraled into his grip.
“I can’t do that.”
“Try.”
I think back to before, when I almost lost it and attempted the exact same thing. “I have tried.”
His voice is unimpressed. “So that’s it? You try something once and are done with it?”
No. Asshole.
He takes a step back, as if he has all the time in the world to stand and watch me fail at this.
I don’t want to fail. I want to wipe what is a no doubt smug expression off his coil-of-snakes face.
“Fine.”
I dig my feet into the ground as if I’m about to fight. I take a breath. I clear my head. I remember watching Raker do this, over and over.
I extend my arm to the side with every ounce of force—
Nothing.
“Call to it,” he says. His voice is right above me. “Like you’re calling out a name.”
“My sword doesn’t have a name,” I say through my teeth.
“Every sword has a name.”
I frown. Was I supposed to name it? Suddenly, I can’t think of a single word to save my life. I don’t know—
Breathe. Sometimes, I just need to remind myself to take a full breath. I do, and then I imagine vines digging through my feet, rooting me in place, keeping me in this moment. I imagine a wave washing through my head, clearing it of any worry or pain.
Then, I think of my sword. Of its patterns. Of the moment I first gripped its hilt, and the sound of silver shattering against it. I imagine it in my mind’s eye, and then, out of the darkness, out of the quiet—
A voiceless command. A word, written into my mind, with a different sense. I can’t see it or hear it—I just know it.
Stellaris.
I don’t know if that was always its name. Or if its name merged with mine, though the pronunciation is different, sounding like the words are and is combined. Or if I—subconsciously—named it as a tribute to me and Stellan.
But I whisper it into the night, and it sounds like a spell.
“Stellaris.”
Glass shatters. Branches snap. Chaos erupts. There’s a high pitch as metal cuts through sound and space.
Then something heavy crashes into my hand, threatening to break my wrist or send me stumbling back.
But I stand strong and wrap my fingers around it, holding my blade with one hand for the first time. It glows for a moment, as if it’s speaking. As if it’s recognizing me, the same way I’ve recognized it.
I fall into my fighting stance and face Raker.
For a moment, he’s very still, watching. I’ve never wanted to see his face more, if only to see if he’s pleased, or surprised, or anything at all.
Then, a moment later, his blade is against mine.
Stellaris hums, and both blades glimmer for one startling second. I don’t give in to the distraction. I move, slicing my metal down his, turning, almost meeting flesh.
But he’s fast. He’s fast as if he’s spent every waking minute fighting. Armies have fallen against his sword, but mine is strong too.
Now that I know its name, I can feel its presence. Its energy. Its desire to win.
It pulses in my grip, as if pushing me forward, and I move. The flower’s healing nectar running through my veins, I lunge with strength I’ve never known, with conviction and trust in myself and my metal.
Another clash of weapons echoes through the city center, seeming to rumble the surrounding trees and the homes built into them, and the bridges that span several hundred feet above, intersecting one over the other in ethereal crosses just like our blades.
Raker turns, aiming for my side, but I block his metal, then immediately strike, sending him moving.
Again, again, again, this is forgetting, this is bantering, this is playing, this is my mind emptying for a moment and my instincts taking over.
Because nothing—nothing but being in the forge has ever felt like this.
This is clashing, gasping, heart-thundering, metal-pulsing, exhilarating madness.
And it’s not just this way for me. I can tell, by the way Raker’s moving. By the way he’s actually trying.
“You’re enjoying this,” I say, breathless, turning, brushing strands of the tree with my body, the gold clinking together in its haunting song.
His voice is annoyingly steady, reminding me that if he really wanted to end this, he could. “Winning? I can’t say I hate it.”
I whirl around and feel the clash of our swords in my teeth. No. It’s more than that. “You asked for this. Why?”
Another strike. He goes for my gut, but he did the same move last time we practiced. I remember. His metal meets mine.
“I’ve never been able to duel before,” he finally admits.
I blink as the realization sets in. His sword. It’s always been more powerful than the rest. He’s never had a fair rival.
“Met your match, then?” I ask. I go for his side, and he turns quicker than I can see. By the time my mind rights itself, I’m being slammed up against the tree and his blade is settling against my throat.
“Hardly,” he says, right above my mouth. Then, he just stays like this.
I can feel his gaze traveling down my body like it’s casting flames.
That’s when I realize he’s never seen me in a dress.
Or with my hair down. His stare is like a brand.
He moves the slightest bit closer, until he’s just inches away.
So close … that I can see his jaw. It’s a strong one.
Then, he dips his head, and I see the shadow of his mouth.
And his mouth—
“Blue,” he breathes, like he didn’t even mean to. He’s looking at my dress. Slowly, his head lifts. I can almost feel his gaze snag onto mine, like a key fitting into a lock. “Just like your ridiculous eyes,” he murmurs.
Irritation flames through me. Of course, he would make my favorite part of myself seem inferior. I raise my chin. “My eyes are not ridiculous,” I spit in a harsh whisper.
He doesn’t respond. He just reaches up …
and takes a strand of my hair between his fingers.
It’s dry now, in loose waves that curl messily around my face.
My heart is racing. My chest is rising and falling deeply, almost reaching his.
He pulls the piece of hair the slightest bit, and chills erupt down my skin. “This is dangerous,” he says.
He’s right. This … is dangerous. This heat spreading through the core of me is fucking treacherous.
But he’s talking about my hair—it’s a liability in a fight.
“I’ll put it up before we leave,” I whisper.
He leans in. I stop breathing. He’s so close, curved over me against this tree. His fingers are still tangled in my hair.
I don’t understand him. He told me not to get near him again, but here he is, pressed against me. Worse, I don’t mind it. No. I want him closer.
He doesn’t have his mask on. Those lips … they could be against mine in half a moment. My back arches slightly, meeting him halfway there.
“Pity,” he finally says. I barely hear the word. Then he drops his hand, sheaths his blade in one smooth motion, and turns away.