“What’s wrong with it?” She twisted it around in the air, pretending to strike an opponent. “It’s light and short enough for me to use.”
“There’s nothing wrong with it.” He motioned for her to take her place in the middle of the sandy training yard. “I like daggers myself, but my weapon of choice is a simple straight and double-edged sword. You can’t really go wrong with the versatility.”
Biyu stared at the sharp edge of the blade, her uneasiness growing. What if she actually stabbed him? Although she had wanted to slap him once or twice, she didn’t actually want to hurt him. Her desire to smack him around vanished and was replaced by an uncoiling anxiety that was only spreading thicker.
She lowered the weapon. “Maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“What if I hurt you?”
Nikator’s soft mouth split open into a smirk. “You think you can hurt me? That’s cute.”
“C-cute?”
“What did I say about being a parrot?”
“You—” She narrowed her eyes at him. He situated himself a few feet away from her, weaponless, and his hands tucked into his pockets casually. The sunlight made the sapphire of his eyes glitter like real gems, and his hair looked even more scarlet. Her heart skipped a beat. “Where’s your weapon?”
“I don’t need one.”
“Are you saying you’re not worried about me scratching you or stabbing you?”
“Correct.”
Biyu wasn’t sure if she should feel relieved to hear that or insulted. She decided to feign the latter, because that was more fun that pretending otherwise. She waved the weapon in front of her in what she hoped was a menacing manner. “Don’t cry to me if I cut you.”
A single eyebrow notched up. “You must have a lot of confidence. The last time you held a blade, it was quite the show, but I don’t remember you being threatening at all.”
She remembered the last time, too. They had plummeted off the ledge into a similar training courtyard. The rain had plastered over their tangled bodies. Her knife had pressed against his throat. And he … had looked down at her like he had wanted to devour her.
The memory made her blush. “W-why do you want to spar right now?”
“It’ll help us unwind, don’t you think?”
“Unwind for what?”
“Stress.” He shrugged, giving her a sidelong look. “You seem to be pretty anxious lately. Some exercise can help.”
Biyu didn’t want to think about yesterday and her heated tantrum—or whatever else she could call that moment of pure rage. It was already embarrassing enough that he had witnessed all of that, and now he wanted to somehow help? Did he care about her in some twisted, weird way? An uncomfortable, warm feeling stirred in her chest and she didn’t want to examine exactly what it was.
She tightened her hold on the dagger and winced as a shard of pain shot through her injured palm. She had rebound the bandages and applied medicine like Nikator had yesterday, and it had only reminded her once more of the tender care he had showed her.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Um. What should I do?”
“Attack me, of course.”
She didn’t wait for an opening—she doubted she stood a chance, anyway—just rushed toward him. She slashed at his face, but Nikator stepped back expertly, grabbed her wrist, and twisted it away from him. She nearly fell forward from the motion, but his arm snaked around her waist and held her upright. His breath was warm as he breathed against her ear.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He released her and stepped back. “Try again.”
A shiver ran down her spine at his closeness, and the loss of that warmth now that he was a few feet away. Biyu ran to him again and he dodged her strikes. His steps were nimble, his gaze never straying from hers, and there was a calmness in his expression she had never seen before. Like he was dancing to a tune she had never heard. Something calm, something dangerous, maybe. But something that coalesced with the beat of his heart.
A sense of peace fell over her too as she fell into a rhythm. Two steps forward, slash, jab, forward again—she was sure she looked unskilled, sloppy, and ridiculous. But he didn’t ridicule her, he didn’t even try fighting back, just let her attack. Bit by bit, all her worries, all her anxieties, everything she had been holding onto slipped away. The iron-clad grip she had on her feelings loosened. And she could finally breathe a little. Relax, even. Forget things as she moved forward in this strange dance.
Half an hour must have passed, maybe even longer. Biyu’s breathing was labored. Sweat poured down the sides of her face and drenched her clothes. Her thighs burned. Her arms were sore from holding up the dagger and being in a sighting position. She dove forward, her foot stumbling, and Nikator caught her in his arms the next second. The weapon slipped from her fingers and she peered up at him.
