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 was defenseless as she tried to get away.
He leapt onto Veronyka’s exposed back, slipping his arms around her middle and across her chest. Hands locked together, he gave a hard pull, drawing them both backward into the sand. In the blink of an eye he had turned her attack into his dominant position. As he lay on his back with Veronyka pinned against his chest, Tristan was a heartbeat away from pressing his forearm against her windpipe in a choke hold. She scrambled to the side, making the angle more difficult, but Tristan took the new opportunity she presented by throwing his leg over her body and climbing on top of her.
Veronyka squirmed, kicking and taking wild swings at his head, forcing him to duck and cover, but he still managed to get into position, his thighs on either side of her hips as he straddled her.
Being close like this caused Veronyka’s mental barriers against him to shake and tremble. Her magic wanted him, reached for him often, seeking any excuse to strengthen their link. There were certain triggers—eye contact, touch, and sensory details like smell and sound—that weakened her walls one stone at a time. Add them all together, and it was an assault her mind couldn’t withstand.
He lowered his head toward her chest, making it impossible for her to strike him as he got inside her guard. He was adjusting his position, regaining his balance, her wildly flailing legs no longer unseating him.
His heavy breath rang in her ears, his chest rising and falling and pressing against her own. His damp tunic and sweat-curled hair smelled of soap and salt and sunshine—smelled of Tristan—and Veronyka tried her best to jerk away. But he was holding her fast, and when she lifted her face and their eyes met, the stones of her mental walls came crumbling down.
The link between them burst open, as swift and certain as river water cascading through a dam. Her magic surged, and her mind filled with his thoughts, so loud and clear that they drowned her own.
He was aware of her in the same way she was aware of him. Her smell, her feel—all of it put Tristan on high alert, but not for the same reasons his presence rattled her. Well, not entirely. It wasn’t just shadow magic she protected against, wasn’t just a mental connection she feared.
Heedless of the consequences, Veronyka shoved at Tristan’s chest, twisting and squirming—panicked and desperate for escape.
But her recklessness made her vulnerable, as she’d known it would. She realized with frustration that she’d exposed herself to an arm lock, and her breath hitched as she waited for Tristan to seize the chance. All he had to do was shift his weight, reposition himself so they were perpendicular to each other, then grab her wrist and pull against his chest, hyperextending the elbow. A simple move; a second’s work.
Only, he didn’t.
Tristan was frozen, and Veronyka frowned at him a moment before bucking her hips, sending him off-balance and slipping to the side. She squirmed out from underneath him and turned around, watching as he got slowly to his feet.
Silence had descended over the training yard, heavy with confusion. Tristan had let her go, had let the chance to pin her pass him by. He’d even let her get back to her feet.
He was panting now, sand stuck to the sweat coating his forearms and legs.
Their eyes met again, but she didn’t need their mental connection to confirm her suspicions.
He’d wanted to shelter her from the pain and humiliation of losing in front of all the others.
He’d wanted to protect her.
It reminded her of when he’d tried to keep her out of the fighting during the attack on the Eyrie; it reminded her of Commander Cassian keeping the Riders locked up safe while the world around them fell apart. Worst of all, it made her think of Val, always supposedly “protecting” her, so thoroughly and so fiercely that Val wound up hurting Veronyka far worse than if she’d just let Veronyka know the truth, if she’d just treated her as an equal.
Anders and the others were watching, and there was no way they’d missed his hesitation. Tristan had gone easy on her, and they all knew it.
With something like a snarl, Veronyka lunged for Tristan. He had no choice not to fight her now, no opportunity to waver.
He absorbed her attack, using her momentum against her. Twisting his upper body—and hers along with it—he threw her over his hip, sending her flat to her back on the sand.
The wind was knocked from her lungs, and as she struggled to her feet, she saw the chalk line underneath her.
She’d been tossed from the ring. Veronyka let her head fall back to the ground, her eyes squeezed shut.
Zero for six.
* * *
Later, Veronyka took out her frustration in the saddle. It was what she did most nights when she couldn’t sleep.
As an apprentice, she was supposed to sleep in the barracks inside the stronghold, and Xephyra inside the Eyrie. That separation was a part of Rider training, meant to strengthen the bond over distance, but Veronyka hated it. She always slept better next to Xephyra and had tried to sleep inside the Eyrie more than once, but was usually shooed off by Ersken, who did late-evening and early-morning rounds. Veronyka and Tristan often spent time at night on the ledge outside his rooms, cleaning armor or just hanging out with their bondmates. One time Veronyka accidentally fell asleep there after Tristan had gone in to bed, and it hadn’t been Ersken who’d discovered her, but the commander himself. His suspicious look—and curious glance at his son’s closed door—told her she’d better get out of there quick and avoid such a run-in in the future. People already gave them strange looks for their close friendship, which had begun when she was a stable boy and now culminated with her being a girl, an apprentice with a full-grown mount, and his underwing. She didn’t need the rumor that she slept outside his door like a lovesick puppy dog added to the mix.
Veronyka had slept in the barracks ever since, and instead focused on strengthening her bond to Xephyra, particularly pushing their ability to communicate. Not only did they constantly test their range, but Veronyka also pushed her phoenix to use words when communicating rather than just thought and feeling. It was partly to keep their link strong and secure while they were separated, but also because of what had happened with Val after Xephyra’s death. It sickened Veronyka to know that not only had Val manipulated Veronyka’s connection to her bondmate to control Xephyra, but that Veronyka herself hadn’t felt Xephyra’s return because she’d blocked all thoughts of her phoenix to ease her own pain. If she’d been open, if their bond had been stronger and their ability to communicate more honed… maybe Veronyka would have known about Xephyra’s resurrection sooner.