Chapter 26 #2
Crea scoffed, unsheathing a hooked blade from somewhere beneath that bloody gown. What a shame it would be to see it marred with the priestess’s own blood. ‘Then it is lucky we aren’t in Hadalyn and I have offended no one.’
She lunged then – a sneaky, bitch thing to do.
But Arla had expected it from the second Crea had stepped into the ring. Besides, Arla was capable of sneaky, bitch things too. Loved them, actually.
She ducked Crea’s strike, sweeping back up to drive her blade into the open gap Crea had left at her right hip.
The priestess spun with expert grace, leaving Arla stumbling forwards onto her left foot. No matter, if she was finally to have an opponent worthy of her skill, she would open that locked box inside her mind and let them all see what it meant to take on the King’s Assassin.
There was a cold, unfeeling place in the centre of Arla’s chest as she swung her blade and danced around Crea like a nymph. It beckoned to her, an urge to descend deeper, deeper into that violent shred of soul that had been trained to hurt.
She spun and swung and lunged without feeling. The world disappeared, only the white robed woman in front of her mattered as she swung her sword again. Again. Again.
Red, like summer berries bloomed in a devastatingly straight line across the arm of the priestess.
Something in Arla’s chest liked that.
She launched herself forwards, ignoring the hissing and snapping of her opponent.
All that mattered was that they needed to die.
She hoisted her blade again. Spinning, striking, blocking, and all as naturally as breathing.
She was fire and ice and darkness. She was wrath and fury and danger. No one would beat her.
‘That will do.’
The voice in her head hauled her back to herself, wrenching something in her stomach that almost had her heaving.
She looked down. Down to where Crea lay in the sand, the tip of Arla’s blade pressed gently into the column of her throat, the skin splitting beneath its weight.
The priestess was blinking at her, as if the fog that had smothered Arla’s consciousness was seeping into her too.
She’d done it again.
She’d lost control. Lost who she was in the dance of sword fighting. She’d have killed Crea had Thara not intervened. She ripped the blade away quickly and offered a hand to her opponent.
Crea took it hesitantly, her eyes round and wary as she clambered to her feet, laying a hand over the now red fabric covering her arm.
‘Apologies. I didn’t mean to draw blood, Crea.’
The priestess hesitated, but then Arla watched the hardness creep back in, a mask slotting into place as the woman rolled back her shoulders and tilted that sharp chin upwards.
‘You apologise for something I willingly stepped into. You are weak if you feel the need to cover your skill with false words.’
Hyacinth sucked in a breath. Arla had forgotten the princess was watching, that all of the army was watching.
‘You’d rather I killed you before your people, then?’ Arla said, her voice dangerously soft.
Crea blinked lazily at her, a smirk turning up the corners of her mouth. To her credit, the priestess hadn’t so much as winced at the slice in her arm. ‘Yes. But it is true what they say. You don’t know when to stop. You lose control so thoroughly it is hypnotising to watch.’
Before Arla could respond and say it was a lie, Crea was turning away, sheathing the curved blade beneath her robe and bellowing orders to the soldiers to go back to training.
‘Perhaps you would like to bathe before dinner? The wedding I spoke of is happening tonight. You might want to rest before then?’ Hyacinth’s voice was a lovely, soothing thing, and it let Arla fall into herself and be led like a lamb back up the cliff to the stone palace.
The princess spoke quietly the whole way, pointing out the small pink flowers that grew between the clefts in the cliffs and talking about their ability to heal some of the harshest of wounds.
She spoke of those strange curved blades called serabti and explained that these blades were thought to have been used by one of the gods when they walked the world a millennia ago.
But despite the history and the facts she should be remembering about this kingdom, Arla couldn’t forget what Crea had said.
She had lost control and did not know when to stop.
Was it true? Had she truly gone so far under Cyrus’ rule that she couldn’t stop herself from becoming death incarnate?
The tugging in her mind, the urge to push and push when she saw the bright bloom of blood on her victims…
There was no way she was in control then.
No way she could claw herself back from it without the interference of others.
It had happened just now and she had almost gutted Seb in training back at Claret Hall, but she had felt herself slipping long before that…
Had she always been like this?
For longer than you could ever know.
She didn’t know who had spoken – her, or the dragon that had chosen her.