Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Killen’s eyes lingered on Sana’a as she moved away from him.

With a huff and upturn to his lips, he levered himself to his feet.

His long strides soon caught up to her, and he found her in the practice space.

The íkhara was breathtaking, full of light and airy with its soaring krustallos and synth-steel roof.

The walls were lined with mirrors, adding to the sense of spaciousness.

Moonlight filtered through the translucent roof, casting a warm glow on the mats covering the floor.

Sana’a’s eyes scanned the space with a shrewd gaze. Assessing every nook and cranny, envisioning its transformation for her brand of training.

She flicked a glance to Killen as he sauntered close and came to a stop.

In the Kíríga’s shadow followed Kaxim and Kione, and she sliced her eyes at them as they approached.

Choosing silence, she studied the room while Killen in particular, studied her with keen eyes, arms crossed over his chest.

She pointed at a secluded corner near a large window. To where a beam of moonlight illuminated an expansive patch of the floor. ‘This is it.’

‘We’ll need to clear this area,’ she added.

In minutes, the Sābər warrior trio and Sana’a began to push aside resting couches and excess equipment. ‘Remove any obstacles and create designated practice zones,’ she instructed.

Using chalk, Sana’a drew lines on the surface, dividing the space into sections for combat training, íkancasting, and physical conditioning.

Once she was satisfied with the arrangement, Sana’a turned to Killen. ‘Let’s begin with a demonstration of the shotel,’ she said.

She withdrew her two curved daggers from their wall hooks.

The glint of the blades in the moonlight was mesmerising as Sana’a moved with grace through the air, demonstrating the art of dual-wielding. The weapon was an extension of her body, slicing through the ether with deadly accuracy.

Her movements were a dance of precision and finesse, every strike executed with calculated intent.

It was as if she were conducting a symphony, each swing of her blade composing a beautiful and lethal melody.

‘Blade. Balance. Breath. Battle.’

Her murmur, which she repeated under her breath every few moves, reverberated through Killen’s being.

She had a way of manipulating her words like her swords, a purely instinctual ebb and flow of battle in her very bones.

Her body was at one with her blade, a living enhancement of her mind.

Killen’s gaze followed every movement she made. She demonstrated mastery and control that was both captivating and awe-inspiring.

Sana’a’s fighting style, the Shotelai way, was based on channelling one’s inner ferocity and harnessing it into powerful strikes.

The way she twisted her wrists, how her silhouette flowed from one stance to another. It was like watching a master artisan at work.

She was so mesmerising that he unconsciously shifted his arms and feet, his body taut with urgency.

Following her moves and desiring her skill to wield these weapons with the same level of proficiency.

Every last swing and parry was a dance crafted with a wild abandon underscored by utter precision.

Each gesture was calculated yet still possessed a wildness and primal energy.

Her breath slowed as she came to a stop and turned to face the three suitably impressed men. ‘You can shut your gaping maws now,’ she teased. ‘First things first. Wielding a blade goes beyond fighting. Let the blades become an extension of yourself. Next, it’s about balance. Trust your instincts and let your body move with the flow of the fight. It’s also about taking breaths to control oneself. Combined, they evolve into an instinct that drives your success in battle’.

As she spoke, she paced the drill area. Her stance charged with barely restrained energy. With a potent and untamed strength, like a coiled snake waiting to strike.

‘The Shotelai way of fighting is about the force of these three habits. Through extensive drills and practice, we study movement, pace our breath, and train our posture—every day. Kaxim, Kione, with me.’

The pair obeyed, coming to the training sand. She had them demonstrate her basic skills for Killen in moments, giving them short, quick commands.

The Kíríga crossed his hands over his chest, fascinated, fixated on how their movements synced in tandem: If one turned, the other got closer, as if an invisible coordinating force joined them.

‘Your turn.’

Sana’a handed Killen a shortsword forged of wood with blunt edges so as not to wound.

He shed his boots and walked onto the ring.

Thinking on her words, he gripped the hilt of his muted blade, playing with a few parries.

At first, it was heavy to hold, but he soon got used to its weight.

Sana’a moved close as she taught him to grip it and place his feet.

They started with basic combat drills, circling each other with calculated precision.

Kione and Kaxim joined in, allowing Killen to practice his attacks and lunges.

Sana’a stepped in where needed to guide his movements. Her hands glided in fluid motion as she demonstrated specific techniques, her body exuding confidence and control.

‘There’s no way I can coordinate so many steps,’ he lamented at one point.

‘Give it time. Rather than blading with care, a lunge followed by a sudden stop makes your weapon fights dramatic and animated,’ Sana’a remarked. ‘Get wild with it.’

His eyes widened, and then, with a burst of energy, he lost all inhibition and added more fierceness to his attacks.

With a nod, Sana’a upped the intensity.

She stepped into the ring and, with a part smile, challenged him to a sparring session.

He surged forward, and she met him with a grin.

‘Fokk, you’re slippery,’ he murmured as she leapt out of his way.

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she sassed back.

She shifted like a graceful predator, with fluidity and grace that defied the traditional combat rules. Her strikes were swift and accurate, landing with a force that sometimes made Killen, despite his bulk, stumble backward.

Instead of relying solely on strategy and precision, Sana’a incorporated wild, untamed energy into her swordsmanship.

He struggled to keep up with her as they shifted from groundwork into the air.

‘Your shit is unorthodox,’ he panted.

Yet the way she surrendered herself to the chaos of battle was captivating.

Her face came alive as she embraced the exhilaration as they darted below over the glass ceiling of the íkhara. It was as if she had tapped into a wellspring of primal power, unleashing her inner beast with every swing of her blades.

Killen was so mesmerised he lost focus for a moment.

Sana’a slapped the flat of her shotel on his upper shoulder. ‘Eyes on me, Kíríga. Look me in the dead-set eye at all times. Don’t fix your gaze on my movements. On me, always.’

While he smirked at her words, the command alone was a game-changer.

The intensity of their gazes burned like fire, locked in a primal struggle for dominance. Each glance was like a flurry of sparks, a snapshot frozen in time amidst the chaos of clashing blades.

Her gaze was unwavering, with a hint of defiance. Killen was caught up in the fervour in her eyes in the contest of predator and prey, a dance of survival and domination, a silent acknowledgement of each other’s proficiency and will to win.

Still, her skill was unmatched. Her strikes were fierce and unpredictable, keeping Killen off balance and unable to anticipate her next move. However, after some repetition, he grew more comfortable blading the sword in different ways.

It didn’t mean he took to her hard-ass methods without grousing. ‘Woman, you’re half goddess, half hellion.’

‘Don’t care how you label me. I care how you fight.’

‘Why don’t you do labels?’

‘I am done explaining myself. My style is too wild and savage for basic bladers.’

Inspired by Sana’a’s fearless approach, Killen abandoned the rigid techniques he had long clung to.

Those which his mother, K’Elisa, a fierce blade wielder herself, had taught him.

He allowed himself to be swept away by the energy current that surged within him. With each swing and parry, he embraced the untamed spirit, mimicking her intricate footwork and quick slashes.

With a smirk, he welcomed the thrill of his fighting technique transforming.

His hawkstone, too, flashed, adjusting to accommodate new thinking. The old ways were distant and restrictive compared to this newfound freedom.

Sana’a’s eyes sparkled as she whirled toward him, her blades slicing atoms apart. ‘You’re getting into it.’

‘I am.’ He dodged her attack, vibrations reverberating through his arms. ‘Even though you’re a ball breaker.’

‘I just don’t put up with messing around, and I don’t suffer fools. So go harder, faster, wilder!’

His eyes smouldered and narrowed, a gleam leaping into them.

She smirked back, using his temporary distraction to smack him on the back of his end with her blade. ‘Focus, Kíríga. Otherwise, you lose your balance and, therefore, your battle advantage. It’s about honing your mind and connecting with the present. Never let go of the moment.’

With her guidance, he started to feel her wild spirit infect him and surge within him. The íkan infused krustallos walls around the training arena vibrated with anticipation as they unleashed every strike.

Their blades clashed with a thunderous force, filling the air with the metallic symphony of combat.

With each clash, their connection intensified. Awakened by the raw vitality they exuded in their closeness of fast movements, strikes and sudden, firm halts.

Often just millimetres away from each other.

Most of the time, Killen pulled away with a smile.

‘This is getting personal,’ Sana’a quipped once.

It was.

In and out of the íkhara, she was haunting him.

In waking life, just as much as she was in his visions.

He was torn.

He wanted to believe she was true to her word, that she meant him no harm.

Yet his hawkstone warned him.

It replayed his recurring nightmare of the maiden. With her elaborate flag-tipped krest and three flank plumes, smoky and iridescent like her SHärd blades, aiming straight at his heart.

Was Sana’a the girl starring in his night walking? Or was she his deepest yearning?

Over the following week, time blurred as they trained at a blistering, relentless pace.

Days were spent honing Killen’s skills. Evenings were immured in recovery, showers, more mouth-watering meals from Killen’s Kitchen, as his companions now all called it.

Nightfall was dedicated to a heavy, dreamless sleep. That only the thoroughly worn out and sated could enjoy.

Kaxim and Kione split their time between the kíota and the army kambí, providing moral support to the worn-out Král-In-Waiting and watching over Katánē, even as the enemy advanced.

Sana’a’s entire focus was on unlocking Killen’s true potential beyond his hawkstone capabilities.

She took time working through each manoeuvre.

Showing Killen how to straighten his shoulders, hold his sternum and move his feet.

She corrected his mistakes and rewarded the signs of progress with encouragement.

She demonstrated how to employ hooking attacks against his opponents mid-flight, which could disembowel even the most ominous warrior in battle.

‘Classically, the shotel was employed to hook the opponent by reaching around a shield or any other defensive implement or weapon,’ Sana’a called out.

Killen paused mid-jab. ‘Why learn the shotel if I’m to use the sābər koya most times?’

‘Because the utmost sābər koya is flexible, limber, and malleable, Katánians use their koya as arrows and stiff daggers. The Shotelai use their pliable, sinuous weapons, which can slash, pull, and disembowel because of their curved shape. They’re used to snag and rip warriors off their course. If you can learn to do the same, to curve your koya as we do, you’ll be at a level beyond your fellow Katánian warriors.’

Killen nodded, his eyes narrowing. ‘Which is my driving desire.’

The íkhara became a sacred space where the rhythmic clashing of blades filled the air, creating a holy symphony of sound.

However, Sana’a and Kultur clashed on how to instruct Killen.

Each had their unique approach to teaching.

Kultur, with his reliance on precise íkan energy, and Sana’a, with her practical and rule-breaking techniques.

‘None of us are superior to the other,’ Sana’a spoke up one morning after a reaming from Kultur. We both aim to prepare Killen for whatever he may face with a blade or koya.’

The older man groaned with derision. ‘You fokkin,’ wench! He needs to focus on harnessing the power of nature, using the surrounding íkan. He must tap into his inner strength and channel it through his sword. Your ideas are too wild, too uncontrolled.’

‘Kultur, with all due respect,’ Killen rasped, stepping forward, fury on his face, ‘you can’t speak to my kísímí any way you want to. If you have a problem with her, take it up with me. That’s your last and final warning.’

Kultur glared at him. He only backed down when the hawkstone on his head flashed in caution, and the Kírígasnarled at him. ‘I am not conflicted about the two approaches. I’m learning to balance the real and the esoteric. One is not superior to another.’

‘I like the surge of energy from using kätu, but I’m no fool,’ the Kíríga continued, his voice booming with authority that cowed Kultur. ‘I know that counting too much on it is dangerous in a fight. While I admire the precision and discipline you bring, kāugur, there is great merit in the unexpectedness of the Shotelai way.’

Sana’a cocked her head as Killen spoke, grateful he’d spoken up for her, warmed by his balanced perspective.

Sana’a believed relying solely on mystic power would make Killen weak and unable to defend himself against any relentless attack. Instead, she favoured training for the unexpected and dominance in the air with sudden parries and wild strikes.

This, not airy-fairy magic, would save his life in battle, she thought.

The two trainers exchanged heated glances and ignored each other during the sessions afterwards.

In time, Killen’s technique became his own.

He began to find a balance between kätu and the Shotelai method. He incorporated both techniques into his fighting, becoming more versatile and unpredictable.

Still, Kultur was unhappy and found ways to nitpick and scold Sana’a’s form of training. ‘You’re a hindrance to this process,’ he shouted one morning. ‘I can’t stand this!’

‘Then leave,’ she clipped him the closest glance possible.

Kultur stared at her long and hard. ‘You’re not even one of us. You share the arrogance and impudence of your people. But you lack the finesse and intelligence to comprehend what you’re up against. I’ve seen your kind before and know how they end.’

‘And I’ve encountered your type, too,’ Sana’a retorted. ‘The strong always survive, and the weak crumble at the slightest offence. I think I know which one you are, and so do you.’

Kultur’s eyes blazed, and then he spit on the ground, turned, and stalked away.

‘Fokkin ay! He has a hard-on for me.’ Sana’a laughed, shaking her head in disbelief.

‘He has something,’ Killen agreed, his eyes dancing with emotion close to admiration.

Sana’a sighed, and her eyes lingered on Kultur as he departed.

While he was a pain in the butt, she respected his dedication to his craft.

Still, he’d thrown a tantrum, and she wasn’t going to call him back or sweet-talk his crotchety ass.

Especially as she kept getting a vibe off him that was suspect as all hell.

As for Killen, he tossed aside his trainers’ rivalry and practised with renewed obstinacy.

He was unrelenting, driven, and capable of incessant, dogged focus.

Sana’a’s esteem for him grew.

Training had awakened something in him, a spark of power he had never allowed himself to tap into. She saw him play with it, sensed it coursing through him, and even smiled as she witnessed his attempts to harness it.

His sparring ability and fights increased in intensity and skill.

Her essence and style of SHärd blading and Shotelai wielding began to merge with the man’s growing techniques and hawkstone kätu.

However, it was the storm that threatened to form between them, the unbidden vortex of attraction that charged the íkhara that she was wary of the most.

Being so close to him in the kíota, fighting eye to eye, where their minds, bodies and even their sweat intermingled, made her want to fling herself off the edge of the floating structure.

Every so often, she’d visualise how and when he’d take her.

Where he’d touch first, how he’d pound his cock into her and how he’d ease her freakin’ ache.

It took all of her everlovin’ strength to stop from moaning.

During their sparring, at times, she fixated on the quickening rise and fall of his chest.

On his jacked and shredded muscles that radiated an undeniable sense of sensual manliness.

He sometimes swayed closer, teasing her, his eyes gleaming.

Like he knew what he was doing. To her.

Each time he was close, his muscled form emitted such heat that she shivered, her nerves scalded yet yearning to drown herself in him.

One morning, after the magnetism between them became too much, Sana’a threw her shotel into its scabbard like she wanted to obliterate it.

It rattled into place so loud it sounded like a weapon had been unleashed in the íkhara.

‘Careful, Switchblade, he drawled, voice thick with emotion. ‘’Tis not the way you’ve taught me to treat your weapons.’

She ignored his attempt at cutting through her brooding.

Her dark, exasperated mood.

His silver eyes glittered as they followed her around the room.

Tracking her as she tidied up the various blades they’d used while he put the training mats away.

She came to a screeching halt when he ghosted behind her.

So close the hairs on the back of her neck rose.

He leaned and rasped into her ear, sending chills down her spine.

His voice was a rumble of need, yet with not a shred of arrogance in its deep, raw lilt.

‘You want this khany’s, and so do I, if I’m to be honest,’ he murmured. ‘The timing is up to you. But know that you will be mine, sooner or later.’

She shivered.

Not because he’d touched her. But because his words had snaked down her spine, through her heart, between her legs, through her heart and to her trembling thighs.