“Aw, baby’s first words,” I coo, and lunge in. He isn’t expecting a roundabout, but they never do. He catches it on the back of his blade, miraculously, and we hover there, straining against each other. Kavar’s tit, he’s strong. His biceps aren’t particularly big—rather willowy, actually—but he pushes back with the force of a celeon.

“Alas.” I grit out a smile. “It seems you’re made of diamond.”

“And you’re made of bad jokes.”

“True, and fair,” I agree. He ducks, the shift in his weight throwing me off, his blade edge screeching on mine as it goes somewhere, so I frantically push away, make space. We established no duel rules before this—we just bowed. No Avellish rules, no Cavanosian rules, no rules at all. He’s not avoiding cutting me, either, throwing his whole force into his every swing. The victory conditions are unclear. And that’s the way he wants it, really. He doesn’t want a duel. A duel is just a game, a diversion, a way to pass time. Despite all the jokes he made around us dueling, he isn’t treating this as a game in the slightest. He’s trying to show me something. But what?

A flash of his paper-white arm, and then the brown tentacles of a net. He grabbed one from the boat and threw it at me! In a duel! It’s so close I can’t dodge it. I swipe, praying the sword I borrowed from a sailor is sharp enough. And it is, barely. The net splits apart, ripped fibers catching on my shoulder.

The crowd shows their appreciation by wolf whistling, blasting my eardrums with excited shouts and bellows. Malachite just waits casually for my next move, flipping his broadsword with one hand and a practiced ease. That’s more like the Malachite I know—a little fun. I brush bits of net off my shoulder, a laugh bubbling up.

“You’ll have to excuse me—my dueling partners are usually princes, you see, and they’re very formal. No prop throwing or anything of the like.”

Malachite rolls his neck, cracking it. “Shut up, Six-Eyes, and just fuck me up. Best you can, anyway.”

“Ohhh,” I sigh, thrusting square at his face. “You know I don’t do well with taunts.”

He dodges, eyes wider than the heavy-lidded usual—a head shot is very risky. And very illegal. But this duel has no rules. That move was me telling him I get it—no rules. All effort. I agree to that, to it, to whatever this duel might do to either of us. So he sets his face into a lazy smile, ready.