38
A Symphony of Violence
Blair
I let every ounce of rage pour into my body until it burns through me like black fire.
The fight is a symphony—the clash of steel, the hiss of metal through air, the smell of sweat and blood.
A deadly symphony only I can hear.
I was made for this.
I’ve been honed and sharpened into a weapon since I was a child, and the battlefield is the only place I ever feel truly alive.
My focus narrows to a razor’s edge. Instinct takes over. I am nothing but breath and skin and movement. All my worries, all my doubts, fall away—there is only this moment.
My eyes trace every inch of Kyrith—every line of muscle, every angle, every flaw in his stance. I read him like a book—his footwork, the way his shoulders roll before a strike, the tiny shift in his weight before he swings.
This is a dance.
A brutal, merciless danse macabre—and I know every step.
Survive or die.
“Without your magic, you are nothing, witch,” Kyrith snarls. “I will kill you. I didn’t the last time, but there’s no reason not to now. Caryan sure as hells doesn’t want you alive.”
He’s trying to rattle me. Once, he might have succeeded. Once, the sound of Caryan’s name would have gutted me—split me open and left me crippled.
Not anymore.
I’ve rebuilt my shields. I don’t let anything through.
“And a lot of people sure as hells don’t want you alive, Kyrith,” I growl, my lips curling into a smile. “Maybe I’ll do them a favor.”
Then I strike.
Our blades meet midair with a ringing crash, sparks flying as we both lean into the lock, teeth bared.
I twist, ducking just as the morning star whistles past my head, and bring my sword down in a vicious arc.
Steel meets steel again as we circle one another, breathing hard, sweat running down our faces.
“I remember you shattered the last time,” he taunts, eyes gleaming, sweat plastering his hair to his temples.
“Good,” I snarl back. “Since we’re getting nostalgic, I remember almost cutting off your dick and didn’t do it. I might now—and watch it regrow. Hope it gains some inches this time.”
I move before the words are even out, sweeping his legs from under him the instant his right foot lifts a fraction too high. His weight shifts, and he stumbles—just enough.
It’s all I need.
He trips backward, and I bring my blade down, ready to finish it—
But I hit nothing but air.
Pain explodes in my back as his boot slams into me, hard enough that my bones crack. I hit the ground with a choked gasp.
“I’ve always wanted you on your knees,” he sneers, circling me like a predator. “That’s where you belong.” The morning star swings at his side like an eager beast. “Time for your last words. Come on, witch. Grovel.”
“It was a mistake to ever underestimate me,” I rasp—and roll.
The morning star slams into the ground where my skull was, the spikes biting deep into wood and soil.
Just as I planned.
Kyrith yanks, but the weapon stays lodged. He realizes it too late, abandoning it just as I’m back on my feet.
I grab the chain, spin, and send it flying. It whips around him with a hungry rattle, wrapping tight. His sword clatters to the ground as the metal locks around him, and I yank—hard enough to crush bone—
But the chain falls slack, wrapped around nothing.
The bastard teleported. Again.
My sword is kicked away, and an arm snakes around my neck, choking off my air.
“Fun’s over, witch,” Kyrith growls against my ear. “Beg, and I might let you live.”
“You know what they say?” I rasp, before I sink my claws into his forearm, tearing through skin and muscle until blood slicks my fingers.
His hiss is guttural, pained. I grin and shift my hips, raking a single claw down the inside of his thigh, slicing fabric and skin until his breath stutters.
“Do not make the same mistake twice—unless he’s hot,” I purr, my claw hovering dangerously close to his most prized anatomy.
He tries to teleport, flickering like a broken lantern—and fails.
“Which you’re not,” I whisper. “So…what did I say about cutting it off and watching it grow back?” My hand closes around him.
He goes utterly rigid, and I laugh, low and rough.
“What did you do to me?” he snarls, his teeth brushing my neck.
“Ease your arm, and maybe I’ll tell you. Slowly,” I warn. “Remember where my claws are.”
He obeys, loosening his grip—but he doesn’t let go.
“What did you do to me?” he growls again.
“I just leveled the odds,” I murmur, letting one claw prick him again for emphasis. “Now, be a good boy—and beg.”
Only now do I allow the rest of the world to bleed back into focus. The students are silent. Wide-eyed. Staring. I bare my teeth in a grin.
“Do it, Kyrith,” I hiss. “Or I might make good on my threat.”
I step back, release him—and of course, he tries to slam an elbow into my face. Fucking cheater.
I duck, catch his neck in my claws, and force him to his knees. Blood pours down his chest. His breath comes ragged, his green eyes locked on mine.
I crouch, our faces almost touching, and wrench his head back by his hair until more blood slicks my claws. I hold him one more, long moment, letting him feel death’s teeth at his throat.
I could kill him.
I will kill him. The monster in me rears its head, because this is what I was born for. Honed to become. A curse. A weapon. A witch.
Ever-hungry for blood and destruction.
I flex my claws, ready to end him.
But then I smell her. Jasmine. Cherry flowers. And lily of the valley. I only now realize that she smells of spring. Of new beginnings. Of a safe and warm and sunny place. Meanara.
She’s here. I don’t know why I care. Why I fucking think about the way she smells now, in the midst of my killing spree?
But I hesitate.
“You don’t need a weapon when you are one yourself,” I whisper, soft enough that only he can hear. I swear the bastard is trembling, even if he’s hiding it well.
He’s choking on his own blood, green eyes wide.
I lean closer, so close he flinches, as if expecting my teeth, and I suppress a laugh before I whisper something only for him, digging my fingers deeper into his skull, tearing the skin open and relishing the way he winces.
Then I get up, step around him, and send him face-first into the dirt with a kick to his back.
I sling my cloak over my shoulders and turn, pausing only once to look back at him. He’s crouching there, on his knees, bleeding everywhere—a broken man.
“Tell the angel this is a gift for him,” I say softly, quoting the very words he once threw back at me at a snowy outpost in the bleak north of Palisandre.
Words from a time when I was still my aunt’s dark creature.
The murderous, monstrous witch who warmed Caryan’s bed and craved nothing but blood—and his touch.
Hells, yes. Let Caryan know that I fucking managed to beat his infamous, unbeaten, prized, teleporting asshole of a high lord—and spared his worthless life right in front of the whole damn campus of fucking Avandal.
Although I should kill him for how he treated Melody.
“A gift he shall not forget,” I finish quietly. “And the way I know him? He will see reason.”
Then I walk away.