Ramona flings two of her daggers from her sheath by her rib cage up into the air, catches them, then proceeds to twirl them effortlessly. “Daggers.”
If Cassiopeia is nervous, she hides it well. She and Ramona begin circling each other until Ramona takes the first offensive strike, jabbing at an upward angle. Cassiopeia leans left, avoiding the blow.
Finals are difficult, but none are as brutal as Battlefield. This is the class that determines your rank in the Watch post graduation.
If you graduate at all.
To earn your first stone, you have to pass all finals. I’m confident that History and Intro are passes. Nature Studies was easier than I anticipated, though I still have a rash from misidentifying a plant.
I scratch the remainder of the rash on my arm underneath my leathers and wince as Ramona nearly loses an eye. Her near hit catapults her into a fury of limbs and blades. She dances around Cassiopeia in graceful, quick steps and pivots until her blade is pinned between her shoulder blades.
“Hold!” Hogsmith yells. He walks over to inspect the killing blow Ramona would have dealt Cassiopeia. In real battles, we cannot afford to be sloppy, to miss the mark. There is no time in battle, only life and death and the exchange in between.
“Ramona wins!” he bellows, and I let out a breath of relief. The class claps, and I give my best friend a quick hug. Cassiopeia leaves the ring quickly, but I don’t miss the anger in her light blue eyes.
The next four duels are over quickly until there are only two people left: me and Sabra.
Hogsmith reaches into the bowl and unwraps the scroll. “Akemi!”
Shit!Being drawn first isn’t an advantage anymore when there are only two of us left. I walk into the circle and roll my shoulders back, masking my panic under a calm expression. I send a quick mental thank you to Marrow for insisting I work on my stage presence. Sabra steps in across from me, adjusting her wrist guards. There is a distinctive feverish glee in her usually soulless eyes.
She thinks she can take me. That I’m no match for her.
She is much taller than me and incredibly strong. Her arm length would probably serve her well with daggers or a short sword. Maybe she’ll pick a heavy weapon like an axe that I might not be able to swing as readily.
Sabra spreads her hands wide and grins wickedly. “Hand-to-hand combat.”
I swallow down the bile creeping up the back of my throat and begin my self-assessment of body awareness. I turn inward, assessing my balance, my feet, the level of stress I feel. The throb in my ankle ceases to a tingle as I begin to compartmentalize the pain.
It could have been worse. She’s foolish for picking hand-to-hand. While I might seem like an easy fight…
I’m not.
Not anymore, at least.
She probably wants to find a way to put her hands on me herself and an excuse to punch me. It would have been wiser to pick a large, heavy weapon, but her ego got the best of her.
If Sabra wants to play dirty, fine. Let’s play. I roll my shoulders and lift my chin. The room around us stills. Pictor stops wiping the blood from his nose, Artemis stops massaging his leg, and Ramona watches anxiously.
I can practically feel pity from the class as we circle one another, likely already writing me off as the loser. What they don’t know is that I was not just chosen by the Lord of Terraguard, but trained by him also.
I sink into Coredivers’ stance that comes as naturally to me now as singing and extend my hands in blades instead of the Watcher’s closed fist style. Sabra’s eyes widen the slightest bit, but I don’t waste any time and slide to the floor into my first position. Unlike the Watch, which primarily trains in upper body strikes, the Coredivers use a larger variety, much of which is lower body strength. In my lowered position on the floor, Sabra attempts to stomp from her higher vantage point.
Anticipating her move, I rock back onto my shoulders and press my hands into the cold stone floor before flipping back onto my feet, bending my knees once again in the Corediver stance. Sabra jabs for my face, and I bend backward, then swing another kick to her ribs. She grunts and sends a series of punches at me. I dodge most, but two land hard on my side.
Fuck, I think she might have cracked a rib.
My anger quickly stifles the pain. I attack with a series of five strikes, a blade to the side, punch to the shoulder, and kick. Sabra is furious but too slow to respond, so I continue my assault with a swinging low swipe to her feet. She teeters off balance, then I strike a final blade to her back. I make the mistake of taking a few breaths to recover, and she lands two more blows to my side.
It feels like we have been fighting for hours, though only a few minutes have passed. My lungs are stinging and I pivot left, wincing at the flare of pain in my ankle.
Sabra notices the weakness like a shark, circling and circling until the right moment to strike. She kicks my ankle and I scream, shuffling to the side on one foot.
“Commander!” Selene yells from the side. “She is openly striking an injury.”
Pretty much all of my body is an injury at this point.
“Is she striking a wound or exploiting a weakness? It is my call when the duel is over and if a strike is valid Cadet. Continue!”
