Raven Chapter 3 Brawls and Botany 26 #2
A slow, intrigued smile spreads across Leandre's face, the doctor in him shining through. He pushes off the wall, fully engaged now. "Oh, now that's a fascinating question. Centralized. Definitely. But it moves."
Emerson's pen stills. He looks up, his gaze intense. "Explain."
“Think of it like a sap flow. In spring, it’s lower in the trunk. In winter, it retreats to the roots. Their core moves with the seasons, or even the time of day. Strike a Leshy in what you think is its heart at noon, and you’ll just annoy it. You have to find the flow.”
"Fascinating. A circadian vulnerability. Can it be influenced? Artificially triggered into a dormant state?"
Watching these two beautiful, terrifying men plot arboreal murder in low, intense voices is weirdly… hot? I need to reassess my priorities. Later. After I’ve listened a bit more.
"With enough concentrated salt or fire, you can trigger a defensive retreat," Leandre says, his voice dropping into a clinical, conspiratorial tone.
"Their core will withdraw to the lowest point.
That's when they're most vulnerable. But also most dangerous.
A cornered Leshy will shed its bark like shrapnel. "
Emerson scribbles furiously, an incredibly sketched, life-like diagram of a tree figure with swirling arrows taking shape on the page. "Noted. And the nodal points for maximum kinetic dispersal?"
"The joints. Where the major branches meet the trunk.
It's the phytoplasmic equivalent of a shoulder dislocation.
Agonizing. And if you apply pressure here," he says, reaching over to tap a specific spot on Emerson's sketch, "just as they're striking, it can cause a feedback loop that stuns their entire system for a full three seconds. "
Em takes in that information with visible fascination. "A three-second window."
"Plenty of time for a man of your talents to do something dreadfully final," Leandre hums happily—which causes me to side-eye him.
"And that," I say from right between them while they're discussing how to properly kill a freaking Leshy, "is going in the therapy notes. At this point, I'm going to get some sort of discounted bulk rate."
The—probably clinically—insane elf gives a single, slow nod. He closes his notebook with a soft thump. "Adequate. Your data is... acceptably precise."
It's the highest compliment Leandre will get. He preens, just a little. “Of course it is. I do have a certain standard.”
From across the room, Kieran yells, "Are you two plotting a murder? Can I help?" He’s lying on the ground, looking exhausted.
Dre gives a dismissive wave. “Just a botany discussion..”
Em, on the other hand, locks eyes with Anik.
They both nod, excitement lighting their eyes.
The others, including me, take spots on the edge of the mats to watch the inevitable show.
Which is what watching Anik and Em fight is.
Their fights are never about winning; they're about dominance.
One is trying to prove his raw power can't be out-thought, and the other needs to prove his intellect can control any amount of brute force.
At the end of every training session, they test their theories against each other in a battle of will and strength. It's magnificent to watch, especially considering they are each other's matches.
"Money on Anik opening up the fight," I tell the guys, and watch as my prediction becomes reality a moment later.
Anik doesn't charge—he stalks. Moving in a slow predatory circle like the panther he is, looking for a weakness.
Meanwhile, Em is a statue. His quarterstaff held in a neutral guard.
If this were a real fight, the staff would already be on the ground, a blade in each hand.
But it's not a real fight. It's Anik. And as much as he threatens to stab his brothers during tea time, actually using knives on them in training would require a level of psychopathy even he doesn't possess.
When Anik feints, Em doesn't so much as flinch. His eyes aren't on Anik's eyes or hands—they're on his center of mass, tracking the subtle shifts of weight that telegraph movement.
When the shifter explodes forward in a tackle meant to take Em to the ground, Em doesn't stop it. Instead, he redirects—pivoting on his back foot, using the end of his staff to guide his opponent's momentum past him.
Anik grunts as he's forced to check his own charge, off-balance for a microsecond.
That microsecond is all Em needs. His staff snaps up in a vicious arc toward Anik's kidney.
I cringe. These two really don't pull their punches. Awesome? Yes. Terrifying? Also yes.
Instead of fully dodging, Anik turns into it, taking the blow on the meat of his back—using his pain tolerance as a weapon.
The strike hurts him, but it also gives him the opening to grab the staff.
He wrenches it, trying to pull Emerson off-balance and into close range, where his claws and strength give him the advantage.
Emerson holds on, his entire body straining, knuckles white. When I see a small twitch at the corner of Em's lip, I realize he's not trying to win this tug-of-war—he's waiting. Waiting for what? Who knows; that man's mind is labyrinthian.
The second Anik commits his full strength to the pull, Em lets go.
Anik stumbles backward. Before any of us can blink, Em is already moving. He doesn't retreat. He closes the distance. A sharp, precise jab to the diaphragm. A heel stomp to the instep. Anik's stance breaks.
Gasping and enraged, Anik ignores the pain and swipes a clawed hand at Em's face. He ducks under the swing, but Anik anticipates it. His other hand is already there, catching Emerson by the throat.
They freeze. You could hear a pin drop. Everyone waits to see who will come out victorious.
And once again we find ourselves at the classic impasse.
Muscles straining, sweat gleaming, breaths mingling.
If I had a tongue, I'd be biting it. If I had a body, it'd be overheating.
This is basically softcore porn with a higher chance of arterial spray.
I get as close as I can to act as judge—because someone has to, or they'll stand here all day.
Anik's claws are a millimeter from Em's carotid, but Emerson's fingers are pressed into a nerve cluster under Anik's jaw, his knee wedged against his hip, preventing him from generating power for the blow.
"Once again," I sigh, "it's a draw."
For a heartbeat, nothing changes. Then the tension shatters. Anik's hand drops from Em's throat. Em's fingers uncurl from under his jaw.
But neither of them steps back.
Instead, they reset. No words. No signal. Just a shared understanding that the first round was a warm-up.
They come at each other again. Faster this time.
The staff blurs. Anik's claws leave trails in the air.
I stop trying to track individual moves—it's like watching two storms collide, each one feeding off the other's energy.
Em's staff becomes an extension of his thoughts, blocking strikes that haven't even fully formed.
Anik's shadows reach out, not to attack, but to test, to probe, to find the seam in Emerson's defenses that probably doesn't exist.
The rhythm shifts. Slows. Speeds up. The air in the room feels heavier, charged with something that isn't quite magic but isn't just muscle anymore either.
By the third exchange, I can barely tell where one ends and the other begins.
They're moving too fast, too smooth, too in sync.
It's less like fighting and more like a conversation—one I'm not fluent in but can feel in my soul, which is apparently where I keep all the things I don't have a body for.
When they finally stop, it's not because one has won. It's because they've said everything they needed to say.
They disengage as one, both breathing heavily, sweat-soaked. The post-fight glow is really working for them. All that heaving breath and dripping sweat… it's a vibe. A very moist, attractive vibe.
Anik gives him a slow nod, maintaining eye contact.
I lean toward Em. "That's his version of a standing ovation, by the way. You should be deeply honored." I hold my hand out for a fist bump, but of course, he doesn't reciprocate.
Emerson runs a hand through his hair, moving it out of his eyes. "Your efficiency has improved by twelve percent. The telegraphing on your left side remains consistent, however."
I snort. "And there's his. 'You're slightly less terrible than last week.' I think we're witnessing a mutual appreciation society meeting."
Anik doesn't even look at the wall; his internal timer is never wrong. "07:00. Session is over."
"Aww, but I was just getting warmed up!" Kieran whines, even as he slides his knives back into their sheaths.
"And the rest of us would prefer not to breathe in what you're warming up," Dre replies, his tone light and teasing, as he spins to head to their massive bathroom. "Showers. Now. I'll make sure the in-floor heat and towel warmers are ready for everyone."
I follow the tide of bodies flowing out of the training room and into the hall.
The fight is over. Now comes the most sacred of Anik's rituals: breakfast. Not right away, though—they'll all need to shower first. With that in mind, I find a good spot in the kitchen to perch and wait for them to file in.
Oh, how I would love to sneak a peek during that particular activity.
I manage to refrain as my imagination immediately provides a detailed, unauthorized director's cut of what's happening behind that door.
Let's just say it involves a lot of soap and zero shame.
From me. They're probably just efficiently washing all boring and normal-like.
The restraint is necessary. Afterall, I will be corporeal one day, and they're going to fall in love with me. I want the first time any of us sees the other naked to be the first time for both of us. Seems only fair.
The distant sound of running water echoes down the hall, a tantalizing preview of a future I can almost taste. I settle in to wait, a smile on my lips that none of them can see.