A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series) by Brigid Kemmerer Page B

certainly wouldn’t leave him unguarded for sport.
    We’ve been quiet too long. The crowd is growing restless. Booted feet begin a relentless stomping. Any moment now, they’ll begin chanting.
    “Do not withdraw,” Dustan says, misreading my silence for fear. “I’ll go easy.”
    As predicted, the crowd begins its chant. Fight. Fight. Fight. It spurs my heartbeat and sharpens my focus.
    Dustan puts his hand on his sword hilt and meets my eyes. There’s a question in his gaze.
    I give him a quick nod.
    He begins to draw. As the blade slides free, recognition flickers in his expression. “Journ—is there a chance we’ve met before?”
    “No.” My sword pulls free like an old friend, and I swing hard and fast before he’s ready. He barely has time to block. Our blades collide, and the crash of metal sings through the arena. The crowd roars with approval.
    Dustan loses ground quickly, backpedaling as he waits for an opening to retaliate. He expected me to fall back and be an easy mark. He underestimated me—a failing I’d reprimand him for if I were still his commander.
    When the opening comes, Dustan strikes with a fierceness I don’t expect, and I’m forced to yield ground. My body remembers the movements, this dance of swordplay. When he swings for my midsection I slap his blade down, and we break apart, circling.
    “I do know you,” he calls. His eyes are shadowed with anger. “Who are you?”
    “I’m no one.” His swords lifts, and I advance.
    He’s good. Better than I remember. When we break apart again, a strain builds in my forearms that he likely doesn’t feel at all. An hour in the dusty arena with Tycho is not equal to the amount of time the Royal Guard spends training.
    He must sense this, because his next attack is brutal and swift and brings me to the ground. I taste blood and dirt on my tongue. I roll before he can pin me, then drive off the ground to put a shoulder into his midsection.
    I thought I could get him off his feet, but he’s quick and grabs hold of my armor, using my momentum to his advantage. We crash to the ground together. He kneels on my sword arm before I can raise it.
    It’s a good move, but I know it. I use my free hand to snatch the dagger from his belt, and I aim for his throat. He swears and jerks back, but it frees my arm and puts him off balance. I surge forward and flip our positions.
    He’s quick enough to get his sword up to block mine, but I’ve got leverage. I bear down until he’s in danger of cutting his own neck. He’s breathing as hard as I am, but on his part, it’s more anger than anything else. “Tell me who you are.”
    “That was a clever move,” I say. “With the armor. Who taught you that?”
    Dustan speaks through gritted teeth. He’s straining hard, and a thin line of blood appears below his blade. “If you kill a guardsman, you’ll lose your head.”
    He’s not the only one who thinks so. The sounds from the crowd have turned to a confused murmur.
    Worwick’s voice calls out over the crowd, and he sounds a little strangled. “Journ! I will remind you this is not a death match.”
    Motion flickers from the opposite side of the arena. Other guardsmen have sensed that their commander may be in danger.
    I put the point of his dagger right against the vulnerable spot just below his jaw. “Tell your men to stand down.”
    “That’s him!” a voice shouts from the sidelines. Familiar, but I can’t place it. “That’s him . I knew he wasn’t dead.”
    A spike of fear drives through my heart. Dustan is glaring at me—but slowly his expression changes. The anger flickers to puzzlement. “Commander Grey?”
    I need to make a decision. The blades between us tremble from our opposing efforts.
    “Don’t you dare let him get away,” shouts a voice.
    “I am not your commander,” I say to Dustan.
    “But—”
    I punch him in the side of the face with the hand holding his dagger. It barely buys me a second, but I sprint for my tunnel.