I can’t take my eyes off Sel. His movements are everything that I know mine won’t be: arcs that glide through the air, quick strikes that send his staff whistling toward Owen’s. Where Nick is powerful and arena-ready, Sel is lean and built for agility and speed. He doesn’t move like a human at all, and it baffles me that I ever thought he was one.

Loud clacks fill the room; the weapons meet again and again.

Owen’s staff whips low at Sel’s legs. Sel leaps—into a perfect one-handed backflip. The wood never meets its mark. Owen scowls. Sel straightens with a grin.

Owen shifts tactics, lunging for an overhead strike. Sel evades fluidly, under and around Owen’s attack, then twists his staff for a wicked blow to Owen’s ribs. Owen grunts, recovers, and moves into a flurry of attacks.

Sel meets each downward smash, sweep, thrust, and lunge with preternatural speed. He uses the full length of his staff—the top, the middle, the butt end—and even blocks one of Owen’s blows with a bare forearm.

Eventually Owen lands a blow. He clips Sel on the shoulder. It doesn’t even faze him. Instead, the Kingsmage grins and sweeps low, swiping at Owen’s shins. The Liege blocks—barely—with a downward stab to the mat.

Still smiling, Sel presses Owen toward the edge of the circle, corralling the older man like prey with rapid-fire attacks. Owen can barely keep up.

Finally, one sharp crack to the head sends Owen to a knee. He raises a hand to concede, and the fight is finished.

The room claps as Owen stands with a grimace, his chest still heaving.

With Gillian’s help, the Liege makes his way slowly to the door, and William’s infirmary.

Back at the circle, Sel watches, unwinded, as they depart. He spins his staff idly, his face unreadable. After a moment, he holds the weapon out with one hand and clenches his fist until it dusts.

He passes by, close enough to touch, but doesn’t spare me a single glance and leaves without a word.

When Gillian returns, she instructs each of us to take quarterstaffs and pair up if we wish. Everyone except me, that is.

As the others spread around the room, Gillian paces toward me, her arms behind her back. I swear, with every step she grows an inch in height. “You’re the Onceborn outsider Nick sponsored.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t go easy on you.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” I snap, unable to stop myself.

She assesses me, green eyes taking in my arms and hands, my shoulders and stature. Then she heads to the back wall and the rack of weapons. She comes back holding two wooden practice staffs, banded with silver, tucked under one firm bicep. I grunt a little when she drops one into my hands.

“No matter what you do, engage your core.”