Page 62 of The Cost of Blood and Bonds

Rye ambles over, grabbing two practice swords with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution.

“You look like shit,” I tell him cheerfully.

“Thanks. Feel like it too.”

Join the club, Princeling, but instead I say, “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” he replies.

“Great. Let’s fight instead,” I say with a lightness I don’t feel.

I raise my blades, and we circle each other, but his mind is somewhere else entirely. I strike first. He parries, but barely, his left blade coming up half a heartbeat too slow.

“You’re dropping your guard,” I say.

“I know.”

“And your footwork is sloppy.”

“I know,” he says more sharply.

“And you’re clearly pining, which is adorable but also pathetic.”

“Fuck off,” he says, but it’s with the faintest whisper of amusement.

That gets a grin out of me. It’s progress at least.

“I’m serious, though,” I say, striking again. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The tortured, brooding, ‘nobody understands my pain’ look.” I duck under his swing. “Very dramatic, very princely, I’m sure the ballads will be incredible.”

“I don’t brood.”

“You’re literally brooding right now…while fighting. That takes skill.” I parry his counter. “Most people can only brood while staring out windows or sitting alone in dark rooms. You’ve somehow mastered the art of the active brood. I’m impressed, truly.”

His lip twitches, but he’s fighting it.

“And you’ve mastered the art of never shutting up. We all have our talents.”

I bark out a laugh, a real one. “There he is! Thank the tides, I was running out of material.”

I lunge while he’s still pleased with himself, twist my blade around his left arm, flick my wrist, and send both his swords clattering to the ground.

He stares at his empty hands and then at me.

“See, the difference is,” I say, spinning one of my blades lazily, “I can run my mouth and still kick your ass. You can’t even mope right.”

He’s actually grinning. That’s my only warning before the bastard straight up tackles me.

I hit the ground hard, the air punching out of my lungs, and then we’re rolling in the dirt like a couple of idiots. He gets an arm around my neck. I jam my elbow into his ribs, and suddenly we’re both laughing while trying to pin each other down.

“Yield,” he grunts, getting me in a headlock.

“Never.” I twist, hooking my leg around his, and flip us. “You yield. Say it nice and loud so everyone can hear.”

We’re both covered in dirt, grinning like fools, and somewhere behind us, I hear Hayes call out, “Should we be concerned?”