These days, Grayson seldom trained this hard or long. His dark hair hung over his sweaty brow and clung to his neck. He’d actually removed his shirt and gloves, something he rarely did because it exposed his scars. He’d lost himself in the fighting, because he needed the feeling of control that inevitably came in the familiar chaos.
Grayson nicked the man’s hand and the soldier hissed, jumping back and kicking up dirt. Grayson continued to hammer blows on his opponent’s sword, but the man was weakening and it was time to end this.
In a few focused seconds the soldier’s sword was knocked to the ground. His hands twitched up in surrender and Grayson lowered his sword, both of them breathing hard.
As the beaten soldier grabbed his weapon and stalked away, Grayson shoved a hand through his sweaty hair, pushing it off his heated face. Spectators formed a loose ring around the field, soldiers who gazed at Grayson with awe-tinged fear.
From behind, slow applause rose, and the calculated sound grated against Grayson’s spine. He tensed and twisted at the waist.
Tyrell stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes glinting as he clapped. “Well done.” He smiled as he strode forward. “How about we go a round?”
Grayson’s right hand flexed, his left still gripping his dangling sword. “I’m done for the day.” He angled away from his brother, trying to show his dismissal without giving away the fact that he monitored Tyrell from the corner of his eye. He stooped and grabbed his shirt off the ground, but Tyrell snatched it from his hand and tossed it to the dirt.
His brother’s voice was level.“Father insisted we train together.”
Grayson grit his teeth, eyes darting toward the castle that loomed over them. For all he knew, Henri watched from one of the narrow windows glinting with sunlight.
Tyrell shed his shirt, powerful muscles rippling over his chest as he tossed it aside. He nodded to Grayson’s sword. “You can put that down. We’ll be using some of Mother’s daggers.”
Blades dipped in poison, no doubt.
Grayson sheathed his sword and set it aside. When he faced Tyrell, his brother gripped two long daggers with blue hilts.
The last two hours of intense fighting had taken their toll.Grayson’s heart raced and the muscles in his body spasmed, screaming at the abuse. He had to order himself to think past the pain so he could win this fight quickly. He extended a hand for one of the knives.
The dagger flashed and Grayson jerked back, spitting a curse as the knife’s tip barely missed his palm.
Tyrell smirked, twirling the blades in his hands. “I never said you got one.”
A growl vibrated up Grayson’s throat and muscles tensed in his arms as he balled his hands. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, voice thrumming with anger.
Tyrell grinned. “I think I’d prefer to draw it out.” He dove forward and Grayson drew back; the daggers sliced only air, but Tyrell kept coming.
They weren’t allowed to kill each other. That was the only rule in the Kaelin family.
Grayson skirted around his brother, spinning from the knives. He kicked at Tyrell’s legs, but never made contact. The blows and parries came rapidly, too fast for the eye to track. Instinct and years of training guided Grayson’s movements, keeping the expertly wielded knives away from his flesh.
Beyond them, the spectators muttered and cursed at the ferocity of the fight.
Tyrell spun and threw out his leg, heel aimed for Grayson’s abdomen. Grayson pivoted and caught his brother’s ankle. He yanked and Tyrell swore as he stumbled.
Grayson resisted the urge to twist his brother’s foot completely—snapping the ankle was excessive, and whenever he thought of using more violence than necessary, Mia’s face came to mind.
Grayson didn’t break any bones, but he did twist until Tyrell was forced to fall. His back slammed to the dirt-packed ground, knocking the air from his lungs. He still clutched both daggers.
Grayson stomped on Tyrell’s wrist and his brother sucked in a sharp breath, but he still didn’t drop the knife. Grayson grabbed for the dagger locked in Tyrell’s left hand—his weaker one—prying at firmer fingers than he’d expected.
He realized his mistake and cursed as the other dagger stabbed toward him. He really was tired, to have missed Tyrell’s obvious ploy—his brother had pretended to be more dazed by the fall than he was.
Grayson lurched back, barely dodging the knife.
Tyrell growled, drew up his legs and kicked out, leaping to his feet without using his hands. They squared their shoulders as they faced each other. The ring of soldiers had grown; Tyrell would be even more desperate to win. He wouldn’t want to be defeated in front of the men he trained.
Tyrell launched himself at Grayson, who danced to avoid the slashing blades. The knives continued to arc through the air, coming at him from every angle. His brother was angry, frustrated—those daggers were coming in a lethal way, nothing held back. In the heat of this battle, Tyrell would kill him.
Grayson’s body throbbed from all the blows he’d receivedtoday, and for the first time in this fight he tasted the metallictang of fear. As a child, that would have crippled him. Now, it motivated him.
Ducking under Tyrell’s arm, Grayson sprang up behind him, grasped his arm, and twisted as he simultaneously slammed his free fist into Tyrell’s shoulder. A sickening pop dislocated the joint and his brother howled. The knife dropped. Grayson snatched the blade before it hit the ground, the leather hilt slipping a little in his sweaty palm before his fingers locked. He spun away, low and guarded, weapon ready.
Tyrell’s face was flushed. His arm hung oddly at his side and his nostrils
