Throne of Glass by Sarah J. Maas

dangling from one hand. She rubbed the hilt, her fingers contracting on the cool surface. “I was in Endovier for a year, you realize. I could have easily forgotten.”
    “From the amount of killing that went on in your section of the mines, I highly doubt you’ve forgotten a thing.”
    “That was with a pickax,” she said, her smile growing feral. “All I had to do was crack a man’s head open or hurl the ax into his stomach.” Thankfully, none of the other Champions paid them any heed. “If you consider that sort of gracelessness equal to swordsmanship . . . what sort of fighting do you do, Captain Westfall?” She put a spare hand over her heart and closed her eyes for emphasis.
    With a growl, the Captain of the Guard lunged.
    But she had been waiting for some time now, and her eyes flew open as soon as his boots scraped against the ground. With a turn of her arm she brought the sword into blocking position, her legs bracing for the impact as steel struck steel. The noise was strange, somehow more painful than receiving the blow, but Celaena thought little of it when he charged again and she met his weapon, parrying with ease. Her arms ached as they were shaken from their slumber, but she continued to deflect and parry.
    Swordplay was like dancing—certain steps must be followed or else it would fall apart. Once she heard the beat, it all came rushing back. The other competitors faded away into shadows and sunlight.
    “Good,” he said through his teeth, blocking her thrust as she forced him to take a defensive stance. Her thighs burned. “Very good,” he breathed. He was pretty good himself—better than good, actually. Not that she’d tell him that.
    With a clang, the two swords met, and they pressed each other’s blades. He was stronger, and she grunted at the force required to hold her sword against his. But, strong as he might be, he was not as quick.
    She withdrew and feinted, her feet jabbing and flexing on the floor with birdlike grace. Caught off-guard, he only had time to deflect, his parry lost in his size.
    She surged forward, her arm coming down again and again, twisting and turning, loving the smooth ache within her shoulder as the blade slammed against his. She was moving fast—fast like a dancer in a temple ritual, fast like a snake in the Red Desert, fast like water down the side of a mountain.
    He kept up, and she allowed him to advance before reclaiming the position. He tried to catch her unawares with a blow to the face, but her anger awoke as her elbow snapped up and deflected, slamming into his fist and forcing it down.
    “Something to remember when fighting me, Sardothien,” he panted. The sun caught in his golden-brown eyes.
    “Hmm?” she grunted, lunging to deflect his newest attack.
    “I don’t lose.” He grinned at her, and before she could comprehend the words, something cut into her feet and—
    She had the sickening feeling of falling. She gasped as her spine collided with marble, the rapier flying from her hand. Chaol pointed his blade at her heart. “I win,” he breathed.
    She pushed herself onto her elbows. “You had to resort to tripping me. That’s hardly winning at all.”
    “I’m not the one with the sword at my heart.”
    The sound of clashing weapons and labored breathing filled the air. She flicked her eyes to the other Champions, who were all in the middle of sparring. All, of course, except Cain. He grinned broadly at her, and Celaena bared her teeth.
    “You have the skills,” Chaol said, “but some of your moves are still undisciplined.”
    She broke her stare with Cain and glared up into Chaol’s face. “That’s never stopped me from killing before,” she spat.
    Chaol chuckled at her agitation and pointed his sword at the rack, allowing her to get to her feet. “Pick another—something different. Make it interesting, too. Something that will make me sweat, please.”
    “You’ll be sweating when I skin you alive and squish your eyeballs