Chapter 74: Humiliation Ritual
If you’ve never had a sword aimed directly at your neck by a man who looks like he bathes in firelight and contempt, I don’t recommend it.
My mind didn’t have time to scream—didn’t have time to do anything except shove my head just far enough out of the way that the blade kissed my cheek instead of splitting it.
The air sang between us as the edge whispered past my skin, leaving behind a line of heat so fine it almost didn’t hurt at first. Then the sting came, sharp and wet, and the smell of iron flooded my nose before I realized it was my own blood. Behind me, the mirror groaned, then cracked with a sound like ice breaking over deep water, and for one strange moment, I was more offended about the mirror than the fact that I’d nearly lost part of my skull.
I didn’t breathe. Salem didn’t either.
He just stood there, still in the follow-through of the strike, his arm lowered slightly, his head tilted toward me with that infuriating softness in his smile. A smile that said: Yes, I could have ended you. No, I won’t bother explaining why I didn’t.
My pulse was galloping hard enough to make my vision throb, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing fear—only the flare of something reckless and dangerous in my own eyes.
Before I could think better of it, before sanity could tap me on the shoulder and ask politely if I’d lost my damn mind, I lunged forward with a flurry of blows so fast and messy it felt less like swordsmanship and more like trying to beat the smugness out of someone with sheer persistence.
Steel rang against steel in a rhythm that should have sounded like battle, but instead it sounded like a blacksmith tapping a bell for fun. Salem didn’t shift. Not even an inch.
My strikes came in from the side, from above, from below, looping in feints and driving in straight lines meant to overwhelm—yet each one met with the barest flick of his wrist, as though swatting away moths.
The impact of every parry jarred up my arms until my shoulders ached, my breath coming faster and heavier with each failed attempt to even get him to move. There’s a special kind of humiliation in realizing you’re pouring every drop of yourself into something, and the other person isn’t even taking you seriously enough to break a sweat.
I staggered back, bent slightly at the waist, panting, and let my sword arm sag.
"Alright," I rasped, letting my knees tremble. "Fine. You win. I surrender."