I’m sure he knows I’m searching for weapons and coming up empty-handed. “Certainly sounded like it, Eve,” he says, spreading his hands wide. I notice as much as feel the six rings spread across his fingers.
Each one is tungsten, a heavy, brutish metal. His punches will hurt.
If he can land them.
Tolly expects me to make the first move, so I wait instead, continuing to circle. It puts him on edge. My steps quicken a little and I’m careful to keep my ring hand between us, ready to shield whatever he tosses my way. He does the same, smiling. His weapons far outnumber mine.
Or so he thinks.
Magnetrons can’t control dirt.
Lightning quick, I scrape and kick, sending up a cloud of earth to blind him. He flinches, shutting his eyes and whirling to avoid the worst of it. I don’t waste time, leaping toward him as the bracelet and ring on my hand melt into a blunt-edged knife. If I can get behind him, it’s over. Put the dagger to his throat or his ribs, jab so he feels it, and claim victory. Over him and anyone else who might try to tell me what to do.
I catch him around the chest, meaning to swing myself around him with my momentum. But he recovers quickly, planting a firm hand to my shoulder and tossing me to the ground. I hit hard and roll, missing a sure-footed kick by inches. I dodge; he chases. He dodges; I chase. We go back and forth, twisting around each other in almost mirror images. We have the same ability, the same training. I know his moves and he knows mine. He meets my knife with a circular shield; I parry with a thread-thin whip of steel. He just lets it close around his fist and squeezes, forming a glove of spikes over his hands. He knows I’m quick enough to dodge again, and I do, the needle-sharp glove whistling by my ear. I respond with a swipe to his ankle and a corresponding tug on his heavy rings, using them to drag him backward. His ability wars with mine, the two of us ripping at each other. I manage to loose two tungsten circles and draw them to my side. Both flatten and stretch into thin but strong staffs, easy for me to wield.
Ptolemus only grins at me. He doesn’t form a weapon of his own, leaving the remaining rings on his fingers. The dance begins again, both of us evenly matched and equally prepared. His strength is beyond my own, but I’m faster, and it balances us out. Sparring with Ptolemus is like fighting with my own shadow, or my own ghost. Every time we do it, I hear my father’s voice, or Lord Arven’s, or even my mother’s. The people who made us into the warriors we are now, hard and unforgiving as the steel we control.
We carry on like this for long, exhilarating, exhausting minutes. We tire at the same pace, both breathing hard and sweating. I have a cut above my eye, shallow but bleeding freely. Tolly spits blood when he gets the chance, maybe down a tooth or two. His face is flushed and mine must be too, but neither of us is the type to surrender or even ask for a break. We’ll push each other hard, until someone gains the upper hand. Usually me.
I slide again, my knees skidding through the dirt training ring with a satisfying hiss. With crossed arms, I deflect another blow and gather myself to retaliate. But as I get my legs beneath me, Ptolemus lunges too, arms outstretched, as if to hug me.
Instead his hands, his rings, find either side of my face, striking both my temples in tandem. It’s like being hit by a train. I see stars immediately and slump, though every instinct tells me to stay upright. The dirt is cool beneath my cheek when I blink my eyes open again. It was only a second, nothing to fret over. Ptolemus hasn’t even had time to look concerned yet.
The world spins for a few seconds, and he gives me enough room to get my bearings. I stay down longer than I need to, wishing away the dull pain on either side of my skull.
“I’ll call for Wren,” he says, but I wave him off.
“It’s just a dizzy spell.” Gritting my teeth, I get to my feet, careful not to stumble and give Tolly an excuse to get a healer. I don’t