Chapter 10 #2
With a slight wrinkle in his brow, Finlay glances at Josiah, wondering why the hell he is allowing Tynan to even voice opinions on the matter when Bathara is strictly meant to remain politically neutral.
Sure, Bathara seeks stratagem advice from him from time to time, but that is always behind closed doors, and asking for battle advice from a Master Strategist is an entirely different matter than allowing him to appear as though he wields even a semblance of power within Bathara’s walls. What the hell is Josiah thinking?
Finlay ensures all of those thoughts stay outside of his expression though, instead dipping his chin. “Of course.” He redirects his eyes to Rhea and assumes his stance. “You’re lucky Draven’s here. It means I’ll have to hold back considerably.”
She snorts, inspecting her nail beds. After an irritating handful of passing seconds, she glances back up at Finlay. “Well?”
Finlay’s jaw clenches at her tone. The disrespect dripping from that single word makes the pit in his stomach burst to life with wildfire. She purposely increased the volume of her voice so it would echo throughout the high, brazier-lit walls. So people would hear her challenging him.
Finlay’s anger boils.
“Careful,” Rhea croons in a low voice. “People are watching, Captain. And I’d hate for your public tantrum to get back to your precious father.
Just imagine what he might do should he find out his golden son lost his temper.
” She mocks a pout. “In front of another Head of a Great House, no less. Why, he may even do something as extreme as disowning you.” She makes a show of gasping, clapping a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, wait—that’s already a touchy subject, huh? ”
Finlay sees red. He moves without another thought, charging to engage her in hand-to-hand. She’s not even worth using his magic on. He won’t need to.
Rhea’s lip tilts with a smirk as she effortlessly dodges his punch, slipping sideways as she pivots on the ball of her foot.
His fist cuts nothing but air, and he draws his arm back, a deep scowl now wedged permanently into the lines of his lips.
He scans her, and he nearly balks with anger when he realizes her hands are clasped behind her back, her head cocked sweetly to the side while a cloying smile curves her lips.
“You lowborn trash,” he mutters.
“If I’m trash,” she counters, still mocking innocence, “then it should be easy for the great Fjolla Heir to take me out.” Her eyes harden.
“Come on, Finlay. Hit me. Or better yet, use that oh so talked about ice magic of yours. Surely my muddied blood couldn’t possibly stand against it.
” Whatever she sees in Finlay’s expression makes her smirk deepen.
“Thought you’d be able to win this fight without drawing on it, right?
” Her upper lip curls into a sneer. “No chance.”
She charges, and her moves are fluid and precise, like a snake striking its prey.
She rounds, sending a powerful kick at Finlay’s throat.
He raises his forearms and absorbs the blow, pushing back forcefully against her shin.
Finlay charges at her, jabbing at her side first and moving for her throat next.
She evades his attack effortlessly. Like she’s moving half a speed faster than him.
His eyes narrow on her. He attempts a series of strikes again—moves ingrained deep into his muscles—and she simply lifts a hand and redirects them as though they are nothing but soft leaves floating in the wind.
“Did you know Tynan fired the tutor most involved in your combat training years ago? Something about her not being competent any longer.” She mocks a shrug.
“I trained with her for a year or so before she left. Yet now seeing you in action, I’m starting to wonder if Tynan was right.
” Rhea takes a step back and pouts at Finlay.
“I mean really, must you be so predictable?”
Finlay’s chest tightens at the mention of Matris, and his anger spills over his skin, unleashing itself in the same way heat curls from a flame. Magic tingles at his fingertips, sharp and biting. “If I were you,” he warns in a low voice, “I would really watch what you say next.”
With hatred brimming in her eyes—so cold it’s nearly scalding—Rhea leans forward. “And if I were you, I’d watch my back from now on, Murderer.”
Finlay snaps.
He slams his palms down into the sand and freezes the ground at their feet, the ice shooting for her ankles like a rapid creature.
Yet she presses two fingers together and lightly taps them to the ground, halting the ice before it ever reaches her.
It shatters slowly, until it disappears into the air like glittering flakes.
She huffs a humorless laugh. “Not going to cut it.”
Finlay’s breathing turns jagged in his chest as anger bubbles higher and higher into his throat.
Without thinking, he flicks his wrists, and an army of dagger-sharp ice shards rises into the air around him.
He sends them flying toward her. She presses the heels of her palms together, pushing her hands outward.
A small glimmer materializes around her, and the ice shards disappear once they reach that warp of energy.
Finlay grits his teeth. He already knows Rhea is a Nullifier—meaning her magic is virtually being able to cancel out all magic—but the catch to wielding nullifying magic and being an effective magic breaker is the wielder has to be able to overpower the opposing wielder.
Which means their lakt? has to be more potent—more abundant—than their counterpart’s.
Because if the opponent’s lakt? can overwhelm the Nullifier, then the Nullifier is virtually useless.
It is a rare and powerful magic to have, yes, but one which requires extensive training, demanding the wielder be masterful in hand-to-hand combat and magical control.
Finlay is confident Tynan ensured Rhea excelled in both areas, but…
There is no gods-damn way her lakt? should be able to overwhelm his, nullifying his magic.
He is the Fjolla Heir. An Archblood. Noble by birth.
She is merely the daughter born from a disgraced noble house. A lowborn raised in a ragged bookshop in a backwater town before she arrived at House Dalmar.
And there is no fucking way Finlay will lose to someone so far beneath him. Because if his father ever caught wind of it…
If Audwin Fjolla somehow ever found out this girl was able to nullify his magic, Finlay doesn’t need a strong imagination to know what the scornful expression burning in his father’s disgusted gaze would look like.
To know what venomous words would leak from his lips, dripping poison beneath his skin in an attempt to cut him down and paralyze him with the reminders of his incompetence.
It would hurt far more than any dagger ever could.
Finlay conjures more of his magic, and he begins to lose himself to the rage coiling around his spine.
The faces, the voices—they all slowly fade away as his attention becomes wholly focused on defeating Rhea.
Ice roars from his palms as he shoots it straight for Rhea’s heart.
Her lips tilt with a smirk before she spins, throwing out a lazy hand and dispelling all the ice with ease.
Then she charges at him.
Finlay meets her challenge with savage hunger, striding toward her in turn. He will put her in her place. He will retain the honor his father demands of him.
They clash in the center of the fighting pits, a resounding BOOM echoing off the towering stone walls as her magic crashes against his.
Finlay performs a series of movements, baiting her with a feint, then reaching for her wrist and swinging her over his shoulder.
Her back slams into the sand, the breath whooshing from her lips. She coughs in wheezing breaths.
Finlay settles himself on top of Rhea, wrenching her arms above her head and pinning them into place with one hand. He leans forward, bringing him nose-to-nose with her. “Concede,” he growls.
“No,” she bites back.
Finlay flexes his jaw. “Don’t be prideful, Rhea. Concede.”
Rhea’s upper lip curls with anger as she nearly bares her teeth to him.
“Fuck. You.” She spits in Finlay’s face, the warm saliva dripping down his cheek like a damning mark.
She swings her leg up and wraps the crook of her knee around Finlay’s neck, swiping him to the ground and propelling herself on top of him with the momentum.
She reaches back and pulls out the hairpin wedged into her half-drawn bun.
Only, it’s not a hairpin at all, but instead a small dagger made to look like one.
She goes straight for Finlay’s throat, attempting to slice his skin with one quick movement.
But he catches her wrist—the dagger hovering just above his neck—before extending her arm out and rolling them over so he is again on top of her.
He snaps her wrist back, forcing her to release her grip on the hairpin dagger.
Rhea lets out a grunt of pain, but still she bucks against his hold, kicking out immediately after, breaking them apart.
She rises, reaching for two more daggers sheathed at her thighs. With a hilt in each hand, she crosses them in front of her chest, her gaze filled with nothing but murderous intent.
Fine. If she wants to take it there, then he will match her every step of the way. Because fuck her and the disrespectful way she keeps looking at him. The way she’s always looked at him since they met.
The red-stained memories flash through Finlay’s mind in quick succession, replaying snippets of that terrible night.
Guilt starts to crawl from the pit he casts those memories into, and he has to actively throw them back into the shadowy recesses, not allowing them to see the light.
He can’t afford to feel guilty. He can’t.