win under her belt for the day, one win so she could go to dinner with her head held high.
Most fights ended by a person getting hit with a pin or hold, taking too much damage to continue, or being shoved from the ring. So far, Tristan had managed to pin her three times and knock her out of the chalk the other two.
As he regained his balance across the ring, Veronyka studied him.
Underneath the padding he wore his usual training gear, the fitted tunic and worn leather as much a part of him as his curling brown hair and dimpled smile. There was a difference in him, though, a sense of surety that wasn’t there before. The battle for the Eyrie had changed him—it had changed them all—and he seemed more confident in himself now, though the only difference in his outward appearance was a strip of red-dyed leather that wrapped around his biceps, indicating his position as a patrol leader, and a fine white scar that split his bottom lip—a souvenir from the attack.
“Come on, Tristan,” called Anders from the sidelines, grinning widely. “Put this apprentice in her place.”
The others laughed and jeered, and Tristan’s jaw clenched. He’d never been great at handling teasing, and since Anders’s taunt was technically directed at her, Tristan was taking it even worse than usual.
Veronyka knew the words were meant in fun. Anders and Tristan had only recently been elevated from apprentices, after all, but there were others who she suspected enjoyed the heckling with more malice. Latham, another apprentice turned Master Rider, smirked from just behind Anders, a coldly amused glint in his eye, and Fallon’s second-in-command, Darius, whispered behind his hand into his patrol leader’s ear. Many of them had been distant toward her ever since she’d revealed the fact that she was Veronyka, not Nyk, and she could tell they were suspicious of her closeness with Tristan. Even now… the masters rarely trained with the apprentices—at least not like this, one-on-one—but Tristan was helping Veronyka because she’d asked him when her lessons were done. The others saw it as favoritism, as special treatment. Maybe even something more.
“Shut it, Anders,” Tristan practically growled, tossing his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead in agitation.
“Or stuff it at dinner,” Veronyka piped up, trying to defuse the situation. Anders guffawed, but he didn’t leave. Nobody did.
Veronyka and Tristan had sparred together often and knew each other’s habits and tendencies probably better than they knew their own. Tristan was a careful fighter, observant and thoughtful about his attacks, learning his opponent before he made a move. But he could be baited. Anders had just proven that.
If Tristan could be lured into making a mistake, Veronyka might be able to squeak out of this with a win.
Still, she hesitated. While Tristan was calm and disciplined, Veronyka was wild and impatient—and he knew it. It was usually her fault she lost; Tristan just watched and waited for her to mess up, then capitalized on whatever opening or vulnerability she presented. But in order to bait him, she had to make a move.
Because of her short height, Veronyka favored kicks over punches, her legs having a farther reach than her arms. Skirting around him and angling her body, Veronyka prepared for a left kick to Tristan’s ribs. She avoided his eyes—it was the surest way to open a shadow magic connection—and kept her gaze on Tristan’s upper body, the angle of his shoulders and the position of his hands, held loosely at his sides.
As soon as her knees bent and her foot left the ground, Tristan’s muscles tensed—his right arm tightening, preparing to block the blow, while his shoulders turned, angling his body away from her.
But Veronyka didn’t kick. At least, not from her feet. She dropped into a crouch at the last second and swung out her foot with a kick aimed at Tristan’s legs, not his torso.
She glanced up in time to see his eyes bug out and his body twist as he tried to adapt.
Veronyka’s foot struck Tristan’s calf, and the crowd that surrounded them oohed as his leg was taken out from underneath him.
But rather than falling backward out of the circle—her true goal—or collapsing onto his side, Tristan fell forward.
Onto her.
She’d only managed to clip one of his legs as he’d tried to leap over her kick, and now Tristan was stumbling toward her, and her only choice was to roll to the side.
She missed his impact with the ground by inches, but