Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The sun slanted into an íkhara packed with groups of fit and muscled warriors clustered around fighting rings in the heat of a humid Kos summer.

Skin stuck to skin, the slick floor surface, and the thin workout gear. Each fighter whisked a washcloth from the back of their waistbands to wipe away the never-ending sweat.

A series of feather fans oscillated at each corner of the vast training chamber where fighters gathered to cool down, chug down water and sigh as cool air washed over their heated bodies.

In one cage, Sana’a worked with Kaniz on the subtle arts of blade combat, comparing their two disciplines as they went along.

Many of the techniques the master shared about the sābər koya and how Katánē’s kəthi and kavaliers used them were ancient, representing eons of a continuous tradition.

While most drills were dedicated to the koya, they also practised with a grisly assortment of weapons.

From deadly daggers to pole-axes and shields.

They even worked with bare hands, grappling and sparring with bags of rocks.

Via Kaniz, Sana’a received approval from the kəthi guild guru to use her metsai crushers to manoeuvre mid-air and match the winged proficiency of her combatants.

The boots were sturdier and far more manoeuvrable than her slip-ons, so she incorporated them into training and pitted herself against Kaniz’s aerial kəst crew.

They were a lively bunch. In time, Sana’a even learned from the handful of select proteges, for true masters always opened their minds to new competencies.

Kaniz shared a series of bloodthirsty, airborne fight sequences that resembled dancing yet ended with sābərs through eye-sockets and violent impalings.

Her signature techniques had chilling titles like the ‘wrath-hack’, ‘pinion pucker’, ‘spar and tar’, ‘de-skuller’, ‘de-krester’, and the ‘wing shear’.

She also gave casual instructions on how to choke one’s opponent to unconsciousness.

‘When necessary, of course,’ she added.

Sana’a approved.

Kaniz was patient, guiding her charges on the minutiae, from the strength with which blows were landed to the tempo at which different moves were performed.

Including how long to linger in each position and the exact angles of their blades as they slashed through the air.

‘It’s like learning a mid-flight masquerade,’ Sana’a told Kaniz, relishing the new tricks she was absorbing from the Katánian she was coming to respect.

‘’Tis a dance to death, for the fight sequences are how we Katánians go to battle.’

While nuanced and elegant, the Shotelai way was grounded and savage.

In contrast, the Katánian way was aerodynamic and had predatory grace, from the midair circling to the lightning-quick shallow dives, which were agile and breathtakingly graceful.

Sana’a took the time between sessions to learn the íkan kätu that the Katánian used on their swords.

Fascinated by its mysticism, she studied the kəthi kavaliers train in the arena whenever possible.

The three-dimensional glowing tendrils were complex swirls of life force that circled each blade. This created a delightful, energetic flurry of emotion and energy that propelled the blades faster through the air.

That said, her SHärd daggers were quicker and more dextrous, imbued with pre-perception and precognition.

Still, she kept them hidden, saving their ferocity for when they would be most needed—for her intended purpose.

Which she hoped would be soon.

Very soon.

Shelay on a divan in the Sābər íkhara’s common room, taking a nap.

When Killen ghosted into the room, she didn’t stir, but he sensed a wild spirit pulsing off her, a tangible heat that radiated from her core.

He slowed, landed and darted his hawkstone’s luminescence around.

The sparse room was barren and lifeless, a ghost of its former bustling self, a void in the heart of the íkhara. The chairs sat empty, like forgotten warriors on a battlefield, and the floor was a desolate landscape devoid of any signs of life.

More crucial was the fact it was clear.

Minutes earlier, he’d sent a powerful kusudi intent throughout the place.

Not a soul would disturb them now.

He sauntered to stand over her, staring down at her, mesmerised.

It was as if she were a living flame, and he perceived the strength and power that hid beneath the surface.

Even in slumber, her body was electric and alive, full of passion and energy that crackled and sparked.

So lost was he in her essence, he barely had a second to twist himself away as a SHärd blade whistled past his ear.

It arced around and rippled back to where his chest had been, not less than a millisecond ago.

He whipped his head to find her leaping to her feet, her eyes glowering at him.

Her hair was wild and unruly, and a tangled wave of black framed her face like a mane.

Lean and muscular, her body exuded an alluring and intimidating raw power.

She stalked to him, fearless even as she stared up into his face much higher above her.

He gave the blade, now shimmering in her hand, a narrowed look, his heart kicking as he recognised its form—the same one from his visions.

The koya on his nape stiffened as his form locked.

‘You.’ Her voice was a snarl.

He chose nonchalance. ‘None else.’

Her lips curled. ‘This is no dream.’

He smirked. ‘Nada, it is not. Sorry to be such a disappointment, Shotelai,’ he murmured, turning his eyes to face her silver diamond-flecked cold, cold eyes.

He fobbed off the shiver of warning that stroked through him.

Instead, he gave her a lazy smile, crossing his hands over his massive chest and planting himself, eyes flicking over her face.

‘You’re stalking me.’

‘Don’t think you’ve any fokkin’ moral ground to stand on given you tried to un-alive me not so long ago.’

She lifted a hand as if to thrust her weapon at him once more, and he caught it.

Her touch seared his skin as if she were lit from within. Her grasp had a subtle strength to it, like metal forged in the flames of an aetheric volcano.

He pulled her close and let his hawkstone scan her, delving deep into her psyche even as her blade vibrated with a shimmer of runed warning.

Their breaths met and whirled around each other, and her chest rose and fell against his as he studied the secret recesses of her soul.

‘Despite your moxie, woman,’ he warned in a low rumble, ‘I sense hidden motives. Hear this, shikari. You are either on my side, by my side, or in my fokkin’ way. Choose wisely.’

Her inner mind resisted his hawkstone sweep, her mental walls slamming shut. She sliced her eyes to the grip of his fist over her wrist, so he pulled back and let his hand drop away.

She gave him a blank stare with a cold smile. ‘Nada, you listen here, Kíríga. Never stand in the way of a Shotelai. We are fierce, fearless, and never fall from a kill.’

He sucked his teeth. ‘Stubborn as all fokk, too.’

She flicked her fingers.

He eyed her in fascination as the blade in her hand transmuted in and out of transparency.

Almost like it was made of smoke and light.

‘Vigilant is how I’d describe it. Our blades never miss, and you must sport Känˌdôr sized balls to ghost into this place,’ she clipped.

He chuckled in a low, mirthless laugh. ‘I have every right to be on your ass, given you tried to slice said balls last time we met.’

‘In Shotelai, we have a saying, ‘Don’t let the voices in your head make everything about you.’ It applies in this case, Kíríga,’ she retorted.

He huffed. ‘Don’t insult my intelligence, Sana’a. We both know you were motivated as fokk to get rid of me on Eden II. How do I know this is still not the case? Seeing as you, Shotelai, don’t back down from a kill.’

‘I’m under no obligation to share,’ she shot back.

‘I think you are, Sana’a. Your mere presence on this planet means you’re messing with me. I need to know just how much you intend to upend things.’

‘Sweet shotel hell, are you always like this?’

He lifted a brow. ‘Like what?’

‘A freakin’ gyro, always spinning around at a frantic pace but not going anywhere?’

He smirked. ‘I’ll get going, but only after you answer my questions. Why are you here? And in a Sābəríkhara no less? Are you still desperate for me, for my blood? Or did my magnetism take hold of your fancy?’

She shook her head. ‘Not sharpest knife in the sheathe, I take it. You tracked me down in an íkhara. Why else would I be here but to win one of the best blade-fighting contests in Pegasi? ‘Sides, I need the schills. I’m also not taken by your freakish magnetism. If you believe that, you’re one sick Katánian eagle who fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. Enough of an explanation for you?’

He shrugged and smirked. ‘Your barbs are cold as ice, I’ll give you that.’

She leaned in. ‘To think I’m keeping them mild for you, Kíríga, so-called usurper, the King without a throne. The one hiding from the noble houses and eyries of this madcap city. Not my insults, mind you, your people’s.’

His eyes narrowed with a dangerous gleam. ‘Do you have any plans to out my presence to my enemies? Or spill what you know about me to your kəthi sponsor, who happens to be a royal family member? A Kəˈnerē?’

‘And also your mother’s sister-in-law, your aunt, I believe?’ Sana’a clipped. ‘I don’t care much about your tribulations, Kíríga. Besides, my bizna is not with you. Please be assured of that.’

He stared at her, his mouth working the lump of klaw in his mouth. ‘I don’t buy your schill charade. ‘Who are you here to blade?’

She clenched her jaw and gave him a stubborn look of defiance. ‘You’re not the kill I seek.’

They glared at each other for a beat until she lifted her hand and placed the shortsword with gentle pressure on his jugular. ‘I don’t share my missions. I’ve nothing further to divulge, so leave.’

He arched his neck higher, egging her on as his hawkstone flared long and hard.

She tilted her face into its brilliance, not flinching for a second.

Their eyes never left each other until the light faded.

Only then did Killen lift his hand to pull her bladed one away from his neck, still grasping her wrist.

When he finally spoke, his words were a rasp that dragged as if over rocks and rough sand. ‘Any sign of you interfering in my plans and I’ll use my talons to throw you to Karth’s wild vultures to pick your bones.’

She sucked her teeth. ‘And I’ll return from the dead leading the pack.’

Despite the iciness of her tone and the menace of the unknown about her, her voice was like music to his ears. A melody that stirred his soul and sent shivers down his spine.

She was like a fierce, unrelenting flame, like a weapon ready to strike. Her diamond-flecked eyes glittered with a dangerous intensity.

He lifted his heated hand off hers and stepped back.

‘Watch your back, Shotelai,’ he drawled. ‘Tis a whole new level of fokkin’ wild up in here.’

‘I’d say the same thing right back at you,’ she murmured.

His lips curled.

With nonchalance, he sauntered past her to the open balcony, vaulting over it and winging his way into the gloomy, moonless night.

Damn it all to hell.

The encounter with Killen had shaken her to the core.

His presence had intrigued and unsettled her, leaving her mind with questions. How had he worked out where she was?

She paced back and forth in her small chamber, her thoughts racing.

’Twas the freakin’ jewel he wore.

She swore it had dark kätu woven into its glittering depths.

Every fokkin’ time, it flashed around her, it drained her soul, weakened her defences, and left her defenceless.

It also, for some reason, eased the aching, painful throb in her joints that had been her hated companion since puberty.

Worse still, Killen’s touch ignited primal fires within her, awakening desires and emotions she had long suppressed. It frightened her, but a part of her yearned for more.

She dreaded her mission, but she’d made a promise to Mirage.

She just wished Killen didn’t rumble her plans for him.

Instead, she hoped her reticence act had been convincing enough.

To catch the most significant game, one needs the most giant lure, she remembered her father saying. But damn, this was one freakin space whale she was fishing for.

Unable to sleep, Sana’a sought solace in the one place that always brought her peace - the íkhara.

She headed to the arena. The cool night air calmed her nerves as she approached the fighting pits.

She practised for hours until dawn’s light pierced the sky.

Only then did she set aside her daggers and drag herself back to her room.

She peeled off her metsai undersuit with care, ensuring not to aggravate her pain.

After a long hot shower, she took another dose of tikό and collapsed in bed.

For a dreamless, restless kip of just one hour.

Before she rose once more, showered and changed, ready to face another day, with a singular thought in her mind.

‘One oath, two blades, three tragedies, four slays, five fates.’