-39-

Elle stared at his calloused palm, white with chalk for grip. For a moment, she couldn't find any words. The man waited, not taking no for an answer. A curt nod, then she grasped his hand. Wincing slightly as he added a second hand over her cut, Rand held the grip and looked her dead in the eyes.

Pumping it up and down a few times before giving it a squeeze, he planted a kiss on the back, right next to the cut.

The assassin detached herself from Rand's sickly sweetness. He went to grab his weapon. Elle searched the room and found Tan, getting up from where she sat. The girl shot her a venomous smile. Cerid tugged them to the ring, muttering something about stalling too long.

A squeaky sound of chalk being added to the board made her turn. With meticulous precision, the man on the stepladder wrote Rand's name next to Elle's. Cerid looked at her knowingly, "be careful. You've won your place in DETRA, even if you lose."

She felt no triumph, no celebration at winning her place in DETRA. If she was a half-assed assassin she would have been more worried. Fighting was her life. It was what she did. No...this match was different. Elle Hallor couldn't lose to piss-poor recruit Rand.

"Stop worrying," she replied, placing a hand on his cheek.

It had all come down to this.

Rand was going to kill her if he had the chance. And every time he'd tried she had managed to slip out of his hold. Her stomach performed acrobatics as she stood at the edge.

Eyeing the man's weapon, Rand made a show of slicing and twisting it, much to the audience's delight. Bets were made on the spot. Elle didn't fail to note that most weren't in her favour. His longsword had a blood-red grip, bejewelled with a single white stone in its hilt. He had taken good care of the weapon. The blade looked menacing under the light of the ring. No wonder the audience were so enthralled.

A dagger, even a longer one like Ravaryn wouldn't hold against a beast thing like that.

Cerid had calculated this as well, unsheathing the sword at his hip. "Vhiena, use this." He handed it to her. She chewed on her lip as she tested its weight, practicing a few strikes.

"Are you certain?"

"You aren't going to be able to get close enough to use your dagger efficiently." His serious face cracked slightly, allowing for a shrug and a grin. "Besides, when you win I want it to be with my weapon."

Huffing a laugh, she held it into the light. A beauty. His father had held onto Guardian but Cerid's was by no means a shabby make. Some smith had dedicated hours to welding the blade. It cut through the air seamlessly. She nodded gratefully at the heir, shaking her head at the magnificent sword. "I might have to get myself one of these," she muttered.

Cracking her knuckles, she faced Rand. Breathing. In, out, in out.

The final starting cry sounded alien in her ears. People around her faded into nothing as Rand barrelled towards her—suddenly she was reminded of Jax, their first fight. Their fighting styles were similar. All brawn and little craft.

Muscular arms wrapped around her torso, pulling her back. Elle's head hit the hard floor first. Light and darkness mottled her vision. The big agent was on top of her, his straddle crushing her ribcage like a collapsing fortress.

Through her pounding headache, she heard voices screaming encouragement. The spectators spat down on the competition, writhing in their masses like snakes.

Rand's fist made contact with her jaw. If it hadn't been fractured already, it certainly was now. With each pant, salty water spilled over her lids. In her blurred vision one person stood out from the teeming crowd. Cerid's expression was blank but his smoky eyes gave away his raw emotions.

You don't have to watch this. Elle groaned as Rand slammed her down again. I don't want you to watch this.

The recruit was enjoying their fight far too much. He rolled off her, standing. "Come on now, Vhiena. Is that all you've got? I didn't realise you would be this pathetic," he leered, spitting blood on the floor.

Elle got to her feet and raised Cerid's sword. Metal clashed as their blades met. Cerid's sword held strong again and again. Sparks flew as her blood thrummed in her veins. Sudden nausea surged through her and the assassin stumbled, managing to block his swing with messy footwork.

The crowd threw her off-kilter. Everything was too loud, too bright. Rand blocked her swing with ease but made no attempt to deliver a killing blow. His eyes shone with triumph as he amused her attempts. How had she declined so quickly?

Spying his exposed stomach, Cerid's sword cut through the air with a whoosh. Rand deflected it. Elle's vision blurred as Rand split into two—two gleaming blades, two tormenting smirks.

The stinging in her hand returned. With every swing and arc of the sword, it throbbed. It was the least of her problems.

What conceded her more was her incapability to keep her focus. Every move she made was slower than usual, almost sluggish. Rand dodged and met each one of her strikes without breaking a sweat.

He knocked her down with a slash to the thigh, taking a moment to bask in the audience's praise. During his distraction, Elle turned over her hand to inspect the cut Tan had bestowed earlier. To her horror, the seemingly innocent slice bubbled with black blood. "Shit!"

Rand cackled, working up the crowd until they roared his name. Cerid remained silent. His gaze didn't leave Elle while she was hunched over. Black blood. She cast her mind back to Geoff's poison lessons; those hours she spent leaning against his desk, memorising symptoms.

Her mind tripped over the possibilities, turning over pages of theory and practicals until she recalled it. Rand, shaking her hand. A hand covered in white dust. Elle assumed it was chalk. Geoff taught her never to assume. Whitelace. A poison whose effects begun a few minutes after application to an open cut.

Elle swore as more blackened blood dripped onto the floor.

Best case: the whitelace hadn't had the time or dose to fully corrupt her blood. Nausea and disorientation. Perhaps hallucinations. At worst, her body would be seized by numbness and sometimes paralysis. It could shut down her brain.

Rand's sword came down on Elle's foot. She heard the audible crunch of bone, expecting a searing pain to bloom. No such feeling flooded her senses. The assassin let out a string of colourful words, trying not to put her weight on the foot. They must have dosed her up with an incredibly potent batch. A lethal dose could temporarily paralyse a victim and even shut down the brain. In those extreme cases death was imminent.

She'd used whitelace herself to end aristocrat's lives. Slipping, cutting them and pressing a whitelace covered bandage over it to staunch the blood. Slip out of the room and the man would fall dead minutes later. No sign of poison in the food or drink. An easy escape.

Clenching her jaw, she staggered forwards. Everything became a grim challenge as the chalky poison pumped around her body. Cerid's hefty weapon grew harder to lift in time to block Rand's blows. The snarling man ripped from his human skin, revealing the beast lurking underneath as he lunged. "Feeling well, Vhiena?"

He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. "I have to say you're not looking your prime."

Looking at his eyes solidified her suspicion. Tasting the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, she spat. The assassin swayed precariously. Rand blurred into a large, dark mass.

She didn't see Rand's leg as it swept her off her feet. Her eyes comically wide, her nose crunching on contact with the stone floor. A warm trickle from her nostrils down her chin. She didn't wipe it away. Elle struggled to form a coherent thought in her mind, let alone coordinate her limbs.

This couldn't be happening to her...after how hard she'd worked. The assassin would die in a stinking cave after a poisonous plot. Had the crowd stopped their chanting? She couldn't tell.

Rand let her slowly drag herself to her feet. Her injured foot protested. It wasn't completely numb yet. Charging again, she met nothing but air. Elle growled in frustration as Rand guffawed. She swallowed the lump in her throat and their blades clashed again. Paralysation might set in soon.

Taking advantage of her crushed foot and lack of mobility, her opponent grinned as his foot connected with ribcage.

Elle was flying, flying backward. A strangled scream ripped from her throat as she crumpled to the ground.

Her teeth sang and tears collected in her ducts. The anguish stripped her of her vision. Breathing was difficult. She didn't need a medic to know that some ribs had cracked, or a lung punctured.

Still, the stubborn girl lifted the sword above her head. The blade shook with the effort. Rand took another step closer, a sickening smile tugging at his mouth.