Page 84 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

There. A flash of emotion betrays Draven’s cruel persona.

Each of the Fae has shown Darius matters to them—that his plight affects them greatly. Draven’s version of caring just makes him an asshole.

The Fae jerks his head, and indifference overshadows his emotion once more. “One more round. Block my strikes.”

Before I can protest, he darts forward. My aching arms barely lift the sword in time.

Crack.

The staff strikes the wood right at shoulder height. I bite back a cry when my still-healing, dislocated shoulder grinds in its socket. Thank the Gods for my healing magic, mending the damaged tissue just enough to endure this.

Not that my trainer knows about my magical advantage. Is it ignorance of human physical limitations that allows him to be so relentless? Or does he just not care if I get hurt again?

Draven presses his weight into the staff. “Toss me off.”

I grit my teeth and shove. It’s weak. I know it. But Draven backs away anyway. He begins to pace in a wide circle. I rotate to keep him in my sight.

He moves again. This time, he goes for my legs. I swing the sword down. Wood meets wood, but the momentum carries his strike to my calf.

I hiss and leap away, limping when I try to put weight on the stinging muscle. “Hey! That hurt.”

He resumes stalking me in a slow circle. “That’s the point.”

“What exactly are you trying to train me for anyway?” I pant out, glaring through heavy eyes. “Not even those monsters move as fast as you.”

And both Draven and I know there’s no hope for me if I’m ever forced to fight a Fae.

He snorts. “Trust me, those cursed beasts can move much faster than they did when attacking you. The sick bastards simply enjoy playing with their food.”

My stomach plummets, the cold weight of fear sinking deep. I grit my teeth and shove the debilitating emotion aside. With trembling arms, I lift the wooden sword in a grip slick with sweat.

For the briefest instant, something like respect flickers in Draven’s gaze. Then he spins his staff in a blur, launches into the air, and brings it crashing down with brutal precision.

My arms reverberate from the impact. I dig my heels into the ground. Despite my best efforts, I’m no match for the Fae’s strength. Strength, I suspect, he’s not wielding to its full extent.

“Don’t worry, Elara,” Jaxon calls from where he stands next to Ferria, watching my pathetic attempt to spar with an encouraging grin. “Draven is going easy on you. You’ll still be able to dance with your mate at the celebrations in three days' time.”

I swing my glare to the placating Fae. Ferria swats Jaxon with the back of her hand.

He clutches his arm. “Ow! What was that for?”

“Stop taunting my sister.”

“I wasn’t! I simply said she’ll still be able to enjoy her ma⁠—”

The air crackles with the promise of a storm despite the clear blue sky. Gooseflesh prickles my arms.

Jaxon smirks up then glances over his shoulder.

Ferria swings again, but he leaps out of reach just before she makes contact. “He’s not her mate, you idiot.”

Jaxon just laughs at the insult.

It’s only been two days since Ferria and I were attacked outside the forge—two days of my sister interacting with the Fae, but she's already devolved into exchanging casual barbs and banter. As usual, everyone enjoys her company. And she’s better than me at fighting.

Of course.

A breeze blows through the clearing, carrying away the static air.