“Tits,” she hissed, gritting her teeth as a rumble rose in her throat at the pain. “Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

The mercari lanced her skin in stabbing waves—as if a hundred tattooists were hot-pinning her at the same time. Her knuckles whitened where she gripped the hilt of her left-hand blade, spine stiff as she fought to continue the connection beyond the pain.

“What do you feel?” Doneil asked. “Anything?”

“I feel like I want to slice your head off. With something rusty.”

“Huh. Well, that’s an escalation. Normally, you just want to hit me.” His tone was light, tinted with shades of his normal humor, but distracted. He frowned down at her bicep, where blood was welling in the mercari lines.

Gods, what has happened to them?

Was it just that the gates were broken, as the fey had said?

She hoped so. If that were the case, then they could be fixed. What was done could be undone. They could shut the demons back in their world, and she could call Kodanh’s power again.

But, until then, she had to keep trying.

She shut her eyes, blocking out the fleeting remnants of sun beginning to close the day on the forest, focused on her connection, and tried to block out the pain. The moist, heady smell of leaf litter came to her, along with the salty tang of sweat—both the dense, wet-hair smell of horse and the distinct sharpness of elf and human. They’d put the horses on long tethers among the trees, trusting they knew not to trip themselves. Beneath that, the undercurrent of soil and bark made a cool, damp impression.

And below that, below everything, her magic lay pooled. Waiting. Latently interacting with the forest around them.

But not the right kind.

When she summoned her ice, the connection tripped almost immediately—Kodanh’s power rushed into her like a northern lake, cold and enduring, filling her over the brim, intertwining his mind into hers. She became part of the ice when he connected with her.

Now, her arm was nothing but hot, searing pain.

She let out a short breath, feeling along the connection for something—anything—that might let her through.

Nothing.

She grimaced, dropped the attempt, and opened her eyes. The pain lessened immediately. “I think they’re right. No connection.”

“Catrin—”

“My magic is fine. I can feel that. It’s just not connecting. They’re right—anything with an otherworldly component just isn’t working right now.”

Blood trickled down her arm in slow rivulets. She watched it go. The skin still throbbed—like it had gone through a thresher. Little pinpricks of sensation squirmed through the flesh like tiny, needle-sharp worms, but the shade was quickly soothing the area.

This time, Doneil remained silent, but he did purse his lips.

“Don’t give up. We’ll figure out what’s wrong and fix it.”

She snorted. “Not even the Fey know what’s happening. What chance have we?”

“Catrin, it’s barely been two days.” He flicked his fingers in her direction—as if he were giving her a light swat, but without actually touching her. “Let things settle a bit.”

She sighed. He was right, of course. She knew that.

Why was she so testy?

That, at least, was easy to deduce.

She didn’t quite glance to where Nales was sitting by his pack, writing something in a small, leatherbound journal, but Doneil sensed her intention, anyway.

She felt more than saw his huff. In the next moment, he’d lifted his head with a hearty chuckle and turned his gaze toward the opposite direction with a guffaw and a clap.

“Would you look at that? Our new pet human is still going!” The grin burst across his face in a flash of white teeth. “So that’s how he keeps all those muscles. You know, he’s going to give you a run for your money.”

Across the camp, where the leaf litter was thinnest and the soil relatively firm, Matteo had been keeping up a regular rhythm of grunts as he pushed through a lengthy body-weight workout.

It was impressive, actually. Especially since he’d been running or walking much of the day, only switching with her or Doneil a few times to ride.

“Maybe you should go test those muscles, eh, Cat?”

Cat.

Her gaze drifted over, pinning Doneil with a neutral stare.

His hands went up with a mock-defensive wince, though the grin on his face belied it. “Or maybe I should go test those muscles. All right, all right. Eesh. Fine. I’ll go test the human, and you can watch and judge, if it’ll make you feel better. You drive a hard bargain, rnari.”

She watched him walk over. Matteo stopped his push-ups, head snapping up. He pushed himself onto one knee as Doneil squatted down in front of him and began to speak. His voice rolled, low and quiet, unintelligible from this distance.

After a few minutes—enough to give Matteo’s muscles a small break while still being warm, though not as long as she’d thought he’d need—they both stood.

As they squared off over a patch of mostly-even ground, each shifting into fighting stances, she noticed that the prince had looked up from his book.

She wasn’t the only one curious about their new human’s abilities.

Irritation flickered up, brief but fresh. She shoved it down, smoothing her face into a mask, and turned her attention fully on the foreigner ahead of her.

Matteo was strange—no argument there. Though he blended in well enough despite his odd clothing, moving with a careful, conscious confidence that belied the beyond-basic military training she suspected of him, a more careful study of him found more and more things off about him, from the way he walked and spoke to the way he looked around. It was as if he’d never been in a forest before, or at least not this one. More than once, she’d caught him staring at the mix of stones and brickwork that lined the road’s borders, and he never failed to study the distance markers when they came up. Ruins, too, received equal appreciation from him.

And then, there was the surreptitious glances he kept giving them—mostly her and Doneil—and the way his gaze tended to linger on their ears.

He really hadn’t seen elves before.

Where was he from?

The fey had mentioned something. What had they called it? Non-Zemiari disruptions? She searched her mind, recalling Jorire’s stuttered description.

…Like two places running together. We saw new rocks, buildings, an odd metal construct—not goblin, we’d know. There were things that looked like they were melted together—

And bodies. Human bodies, but foreign. Not Zemiari.

Had Matteo come from a different world?

His weapon had certainly looked different. A firearm, definitely, but unlike anything she’d ever seen or heard of. Definitely not goblin—no craftsman marks for one, and no trace of their artificing for another. Everything about it spoke of perfection. Perfect lines, perfect symmetry, perfect balance…

She studied Matteo, watching him move. He’d ridden the horses similar to how Treng rode, but the fighting stance he adopted was different. It looked habitual to him. Hesitant, yes, and with his brow furrowed in a questioning expression as he followed Doneil’s lead, but his footwork flowed smoothly, and he never dropped his guard.

Doneil threw a couple of punches—light, glancing, easing into the spar.

Then, he went for a takedown.

Catrin watched him move in, well familiar with the styles of the rnari. It was a simple one he was going for—distract the upper hand, slide in, lock a heel behind the opponent’s lower leg and shove the opposite shoulder—

But Matteo was ready for it.

With a smooth, effortless-looking twist, he grabbed Doneil around the torso, spun them both around, and flipped him into the dirt.

Doneil gave a strangled squawk, quickly cut off by an oof.

Her laughter burst loud into the trees.

“Oh, heavens,” she said, a grin splitting wide across her teeth. “You’re right, Doneil—I feel much better!”

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

“Oh, shut up,” came the muffled response. Doneil’s head, somewhat bedraggled by dirt, came up to scowl at her as Matteo let him go. He picked himself up, brushing the dirt from his leathers.

“No, go on.” She smoothed her features, not quite managing to contain the flutter of laughter that still spasmed her chest. Her grin peeked out in a flash of canine teeth that she knew he wouldn’t miss. “Keep testing his muscles. I’m getting a fantastic idea of someone’s fighting ability.”

“Temdin,” he swore. “Don’t you always get beat up by Treng?”

“With swords only,” she reminded him sweetly. “With blades and straight hand to hand, I always come out on top.”

Most of that, she knew, was due to her race advantage. Had she been human, Treng would likely have schooled her, but elves were just too strong and fast.

Doneil made a disgusted noise in his throat. His hand came out, pointing to her. “I’m doing this for you, don’t forget.”

“And I’m ever so grateful.” She leaned forward, taking in the scene with renewed interest, gaze flicking between them with a happy hum. Matteo, for his part, kept his expression shuttered, which made her even happier.

“Please,” she said. “Do go on.”

“Gods save me,” Doneil muttered as he slid himself back into fighting stance. “This is just base entertainment for you.”

“Your rnari reputation rides on it,” she informed him, giving him a mock salute with her off hand as she leaned back, fully aware of the grin that stretched her face.

He muttered something else under his breath, then got serious.

This time, Doneil was cautious. Slower, more careful, his expression a solid, blank frown that mirrored Matteo’s intense look. Her own grin slid off as the two stepped in, a buzzing energy filling her body. They traded a few feints and darts—Doneil lunged inward with a Second Circle ‘joust’ that had Matteo backing swiftly across the earth in defense. Dust rose from the ground as his boots thudded down in a skitter.

Then, as before, Doneil went in for the takedown.

Matteo exploded into motion.

He didn’t try to flip him—not this time. Instead, the two locked in a standing struggle, Matteo’s sudden advance forcing Doneil to retreat. Doneil’s foot came out, but Matteo kicked it away and shoved his leg down, forcing Doneil back another step.

For a second, the two men stood there, muscles bulging, arms and torsos weaving like constrictors as they attempted to get the upper hand.

Then, Matteo dropped.

Doneil let out a surprised yelp as they both went down. There was a brief skirmish of flailing limbs, and a struggling attempt to grapple.

Within a few moments, Matteo had him pinned again, this time with a leg lock on his arm.

Catrin’s grin nearly ate her face.

“You were definitely right, Doneil,” she cooed. “This is highly entertaining. And to think—this is after he did a million sets of push-ups.”

And the fact that he’d gone toe to toe with Doneil for strength? Her impression of Matteo’s ability had jumped to a whole new level. Humans just weren’t built for that. It was like comparing a deer to a horse—while both were strong, an elf’s muscles were just that much denser, allowing for more explosive feats of strength and flexibility. That, and the woodcraft senses that buffered their reactions and environmental awareness.

Doneil groaned, extricating himself from Matteo’s hold.

“Maybe this is the real reason I retired from the rnari. You’re welcome to try anytime, Catrin. Show us all what the Twelfth Circle is made of.”

A buzz of giddiness ran through her, light as a butterfly’s touch, and another grin spread across her face.

She rose and unbuckled the sheaths of her blades.

Matteo’s attention snapped to her.

So did the prince’s.

Odd, she thought, hiding her reaction as the weight of his gaze crawled through the side of her body. They’d taken down demons together just two nights ago. He knew what she was capable of.

And why did she feel his stare so much? It was like being next to an electrical current.

She ignored him, dropping her sheaths and their harness in a neat pile, and strode forward. Matteo waited, an expression of watchful uncertainty clouding his expression.

His gaze dropped to the muscles that bulged at her sides. Either that, or the tattoos that covered them. She kept still, letting him take a good look.

The prince’s gaze still crawled through her side.

This time, the memory of Tarris’ green eyes slipped into her mind.

She shoved it back down.

But her expression must have rippled, because Matteo noticed. Dark brown eyes held hers, the strong brow furrowed above him. He tilted his head in a quick uptick, holding her stare.

A question.

That was not something she was about to try explaining to him. Or anyone else involved.

In answer, she gave a tilt of her own head and made a gesture to encompass his body, eyebrows lifting in their own question.

Was he okay to fight?

His expression shuttered immediately. He gave a curt nod, shifting into back stance.

She mirrored him.

Then, they began.

She let him take the lead to start—she intended to draw this out, let him feel her out, test her—and he did. A quick step forward, to check her reaction, a dart to the right. She let him land a smack on her bicep, the blow glancing.

With every movement, Doneil and Nales’ attention burned into their skin. The forest quieted around them, and a slow breeze slid between them, the air thickening with the scent of rain. Her steps were sure and light, movements fluid, the instincts of a rnari as habitual to her as the sound and movements of her mother tongue. The smell of dirt rose in her senses, mingling with the sweat and leather.

After about a minute, he finally made a real move.

The throw was light, efficient, expertly done, and she let him do it. She didn’t even touch him as he stepped in, grabbed her wrist—and he tensed, already sensing the wrongness of her ease, but he was committed. His thigh blocked hers, hip connecting, and he dropped her over his leg.

As the world spun, she spun with it.

Momentum was her ally. Even in her early training days, she’d shown a natural ability to harness it—one she’d honed both in the strict, brutal training grounds of her ambitious rnari regime and in the wilds of the Raidt’s surrounding forest.

So, when he made to swing her onto the ground, she simply grabbed him, added a step up to her momentum, flipped over his back, and pulled them both over.

They landed in a conjoined thud.

A strangled noise came from his throat, and he twisted immediately, but she planted a foot into his lower back and shoved him firmly off, already rolling to her feet.

She backed off, allowing him to recover.

He did so, locked eyes on her, and charged.

This time, she took him down the front, swinging them both in a grappling roll. Rough earth and stone thudded into their shoulders, and his hand gripped her forearm like a vise, attempting to bring it up. She resisted, broke loose a second later, and jammed her other arm up close to his neck.

He took them for another roll.

But, when she attempted to continue the momentum, her hip smacked into a fallen log.

His weight pressed down on her back, and his hand clamped down on her wrist again.

From the side, Doneil gave a crow of triumph as Matteo overcame her resistance and managed to trap her arm into a lock.

She clenched her teeth and grunted. Her muscles strained as she lifted both herself and Matteo up, one-handed, and turned her back. His weight fell from her, limbs a jumble of movement as he tried to swing his legs up, trap her torso.

She was on him in a second. Pulling them both into a roll—another one—she captured his right wrist, brought it up to her shoulder, and shoved her knee down into his back.

He grunted into the dirt and struggled. She eased and rode him out as he tried to buck her off and out-maneuver her.

Then, he stopped.

A second later, his free hand tapped the dirt.

She relaxed her grip and eased off him.

“And that’s why you don’t pick fights with the Twelfth Circle.” Doneil’s tone was light and dry as summer-bleached bones, and a wicked curve flicked the corner of his mouth upward.

“Yes,” she said, her humor light between breaths. Idly, she brushed off the loose dirt and leaves that had attached themselves to her during the rolls. “Though I can think of a few other reasons.”

“Like the continued existence of my head on my shoulders?” Doneil suggested. “Or were you referring to the politics?”

She snorted. “Those two things aren’t usually separate from each other, I’ve found.”

Rnari politics—or, to put it more bluntly, the in-house drama that came from such a competitive school—was hardly a secret. Being who she was, bloodlined and with a serious ability to defend herself, she’d managed to avoid most of it, but she’d heard stories from others she’d trained with.

On the ground, Matteo had recovered. His face had a questioning look.

She shot him a grin and held out her hand.

He hesitated—just for a moment—then took it.

Then, after he straightened, to her surprise, he gave a short bow and held out his arm.

Exactly how the fey prince had offered her his.

A smile tucked the corners of her mouth.

He’s learning.

Good. He’d need to. The world was dangerous enough, especially if you didn’t speak any of its languages.

She took it, stiffening only a little as his fingers touched her inner arm—Temdin, was she going to have to find an extra piece of armor to cover that area? It felt so exposed.

This time, fortunately, he didn’t notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t press.

She dropped her hand and stepped away.

“Okay—Doneil, you prep the foodstuff. I’ll go find us some firewood. We’ll rest here tonight, then leave with the sun.”

Picking up her blades from where she’d left them, she buckled them on as she walked toward the edge of camp—up the near slope, where the wood might be drier—then caught the look on Nales’ face.

He was still staring at her, same as he’d been before—only now, there was a distinct expression of shock on his features as he watched her move.

Ah. The fight.

Perhaps he hadn’t believed her Twelfth Circle claims.

An easy thing, she supposed. When they’d fought together, it had been night—hard to see, in a human’s eyes, and a time when things were more brushed under the metaphorical rug. And cutting demons was an entirely different matter than winning against someone at wrestling.

Still, though, he stared.

She shot him a cheery smile, gave him a two-fingered salute—in the rnari tradition, casual greeting to a superior, and definitely mocking him—and turned into the forest.