He parried—once, twice—And then I twisted, redirected, slipped past his guard in a move even I didn't remember learning.
The garden went silent. My wooden sword rested lightly at his neck. "So?" I asked, lifting my chin, breathless but composed. "Was I passable enough as your sparring match?"
Viking froze. Slowly, he looked at me like I had just sprouted horns. "What the hell happened?" he asked, disbelief plain on his face. "Even my second-in-command couldn't dodge that final move. And you did it without even a sweat."
Without sweat.
Dear lord. If only he knew. I was sweating rivers. Armpits. Back. Places that had no business producing moisture were absolutely thriving. But none of that mattered because his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—were wide with genuine shock.
Almost reverence. He looked at me like I was… something else. "You are amazing," he said quietly. "How could you not use your sword more often? Did you add magic to your swing?"
