“Don’t listen to him, Bree!” Greer cheers.

I don’t want to listen to him, but I can’t help but hear his low, mocking laugh. Can’t help but notice his eyes meandering up my body, starting at my legs and lingering over my hips and chest. “Fine, stay.” He mutters, so that only I can hear him, “I don’t mind the view.”

Anger floods me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of an emotional, undisciplined attack. He shrugs as if to say, Have it your way—and lunges.

He strikes so quickly, the black blade whistles when it swings. I parry, catching the broad side of his sword against the hardest part of my own—the forte—and leap back.

Vaughn spins his sword once with a smile, as if to remind me what his weapon can do. The Order’s practice swords aren’t steel, but they’re plenty heavy and wide. Strong enough to break a bone with a well-aimed hit.

He surges forward. Brings his blade down in an overhead strike. I raise my sword to block it, but he stalls—then leans back and kicks me hard in the stomach.

I stumble, my midsection a dizzying cocktail of nausea and pain.

Vaughn sweeps in—I just barely turn my sword to meet the low hack at my legs.

Then he charges again, swinging, and it’s a basic drill, just a twist of my wrist to deflect.

Too easy.

I cough, and blood—iron rich and salty—fills my mouth. Feral humor glitters in Vaughn’s eyes. Understanding dawns.

That kick was well aimed. Strategic.

Every movement, every twist and stretch and pivot, is ten times harder with internal bleeding.

He’s toying with me.

Everything—Vaughn’s face, the trees, the ring—blurs under the veil of white-hot fury.

I shift my grip, preparing for a two-handed blow to his ribs, when Sel’s last lesson echoes in my ears.

“Typical anger can hinder or help. But the kind that burns in your gut? That’s fury. And fury is meant to be used.”

I strafe, twisting left, then pivot. The flat of my blade smacks his fingers hard, breaking his grip. Both swords drop to the ground.

Vaughn looks up, shock crossing his features, and lunges for me, but I’m already in the air.

His momentum carries him forward—right into my flying knee.

His head snaps back.

His spine hits the mat, and blood streams across his nose and mouth.

For a second, the woods are completely silent.

Then Russ jumps to his feet and whoops, triggering a wave of shouts and applause.

Vaughn rocks slightly, his hands covering his face. But he doesn’t get up.

“Match to Matthews!” Gillian calls, an astonished smile lighting her face.