Sera's Pov
Kael stepped into the circle with that familiar lazy confidence, his daggers spinning effortlessly between his fingers. His shoulders were loose, his steps unhurried, as if this were nothing more than an evening stroll. But I knew better.
I swallowed hard, curling my fingers into my palm to stop myself from biting my nails.
There was something different about watching him now, standing in the center, his gaze sharp and unreadable.
His opponent stepped in next.
Broader. Taller. Thickly muscled. He carried a baton nearly the length of his arm, its surface reinforced with iron studs. A weapon meant to break bones, to crush rather than slice.
He was confident, but I caught the way his fingers flexed around the handle. The way his weight shifted ever so slightly. He had seen Kael fight before.
He knew this wouldn't be easy.
Kael tilted his head, the smirk on his lips slow, lazy, as if he found the whole thing amusing. My stomach twisted. That smirk was never a good sign.
The match began.
Kael moved first.
A flicker of motion, and then he was gone from where he had been standing, a blur of speed closing the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His daggers caught the light as they struck, the edges whispering against fabric and skin.
A sharp hiss from his opponent.
Blood beaded from a thin cut just below the ribs. Shallow, non-fatal. A warning.
Kael stepped back.
He could have kept going. Could have driven his daggers deeper, ended the match in seconds. But he didn't.
Instead, he waited.
Taunting.
His opponent scowled, adjusting his stance. He lunged, baton swinging in a brutal arc. Kael shifted smoothly, avoiding it with almost lazy ease, letting the weapon pass inches from his face before stepping around him.
Another slice.
A thin line of red along his opponent's forearm.
The warrior gritted his teeth.
Kael wasn't trying to win. Not yet. He was dragging this out, testing him, cutting him in small, stinging places that healed quickly but served as a reminder—he was in control.
His opponent knew it too.
His frustration showed in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his movements became more aggressive, more desperate. Each failed attempt to land a hit only made him sloppier, his swings wider, easier to predict.
Kael dodged again. Another shallow cut to his side.
The warrior snarled.
And then—an opening.
A feint to the left. A calculated misdirection.
Kael's gaze flickered toward it for the briefest second. It was enough.
The baton came from the right.
A sharp, brutal swing.
It connected.
The sound of impact cracked through the air like thunder.
Kael's head snapped to the side.
The world went silent.
For the first time since the match started, Kael had been hit.
I stiffened, my breath catching.
Even the other warriors watching had gone still.
His opponent hesitated. Just for a second. Just long enough to see what he had done.
And then, Kael turned his face back.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His smirk was gone.
His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.
And then—he smiled.
And it was not kind. Not lazy. N
ot amused.
It was something else entirely.
The kind of smile that made my blood turn cold.