ETAN

When he saw the blood on his fingertips, rage flowed out of his chest and heated his veins. "You will regret that, sir," he muttered through his teeth. The man grinned, and Etan returned the smile.

And then he unleashed.

As he cleared his mind and focused only on the tiny areas of open skin and vulnerable spots, he could vaguely hear Borsche calling him from the sidelines, pleading with him to forfeit the fight, but he ignored him.

He would fight, and he might even lose. But he would not surrender to these people, these despicable cheaters.

Forward, forward, he flowed, twisted, and slashed—all his power freed. The Duke was forced back, blocking and parrying just to keep himself upright as Etan turned and came up his leg with the blade—a cut that, if his own blade weren't dulled, would have cut through the man's tendon. Instead, the pressure slackened his leg and he overbalanced with a curse as Etan turned again, kicking the man's foot out from under him and, as he tumbled to the dirt, lifting his sword and bringing it, point-down to the man's neck.

He froze then, tempted. The right pressure in the right place… he could kill this man.

His hands shook with the desire to do it.

"Savage," the Duke snarled, on his back in the dirt, both hands raised. He'd lost his sword in the fall. Etan shook his head at the poor control and forced himself to straighten.

The umpire's whistle blew and the crowd roared—some in excitement, others in protest—as Etan let his sword swing back and away, so it was no longer a threat, though he didn't sheath it.

He didn't trust this man as far as he could throw him.

With a grim smile, he offered the Duke a hand to get up. "In the Spirit of the Festival of Peace," he said through his teeth.

The Duke looked at his hand for a second, then rolled to his feet without taking it. Etan shook his head again, adding petty to his charges against him.

"A foul! A foul!" some in the crowd called.

"Cheats! He cheats!" others screamed.

With one eye on his humiliated opponent, Etan turned to bow to the King as was the tradition. But the King was leaned forward in his seat, listening to one of his men. He beckoned the umpire towards him, who trotted nervously to the side of the arena to hear the King's speech over the roar of the crowd.

Etan and his opponent waited as the men discussed their fight, then the King pointed at Etan, and the umpire nodded.

He returned to the center of the ring and turned to face the crowd. As he raised his hands for silence, Etan felt the weaves of magic circle the man to amplify his voice. His skin crawled.

"We have a claim of foul," the umpire said.

The audience roared and Etan winced as the sound buffeted them from every side.

"He bleeds! He bleeds!" some called, others shouting for his forfeit for using a barred move.

But Etan just watched the umpire, waiting for the inevitable. The man glanced at him nervously—with an apology in his eyes.

"We appear to have foul on both sides," the umpire called, "and so the fight will be called a draw, and the conclusion of the fight determined by the hand-to-hand-combat."

The crowd were out of their seats—in thrill and protest, but Etan just shook his head. He turned to look at Borsche who was glaring at the Umpire, but caught his gaze and looked at him.

He didn't stop glaring. He was going to have words with Etan later about giving in to his temper.

Etan didn't care. He would not surrender to these people, no matter how immoral or unjust they were.

"Please take your places for the combat!" the Umpire called. His voice was swept around the arena as Etan and the Duke handed their swords off to their men, then turned again, still breathless, to face the King, and then each other.

"You'll regret that, dog," the Duke snarled.

Etan gritted his teeth but made himself smile. "We'll see," he said. Then the whistle blew, and he darted forward, leaving no time for the man to prepare.