Son of a slave

"Do you want to continue?" asked Arienne, who felt warm blood on the back of her neck, her left shoulder and right thigh. "Even with your skills, it’ll take at least an hour for you to reattach that arm."

"Tch," snickered the other woman, dark eyes cool and collected without any hint of anger or pain. "What about you? You’ve got about ten minutes

before my paralysis poison sets in. Even though you’ve managed to injure me, it’s just a small thing."

The mass of floating projectiles began to swirl in a menacing manner.

While she couldn’t be certain if Deena’s words were true, Arienne couldn’t take the risk. Within her mouth, she bit down on one of her fake molars and quickly drank the all-purpose antidote within.

"How long can you keep numbing yourself with your medical magics? I’ve cut plenty of people’s arms off, and let me tell you, the pain isn’t so easily ignored."

The two women continued to size one another up, Arienne thinking that they couldn’t be more different. She was tall and fair, with bright blue eyes, shoulder-length blonde hair and beautiful facial features, whereas Deena was short, thin and overly pale, as if she rarely saw any sunlight. The arcanite’s dark hair was shorter than hers, and her black eyes were piercing, shrewd, and without a hint of warmth.

"Let me tell you," said Deena, her smile sinister, entertained even. "Even if I don’t kill you today, you’ll be hunted down by the church for the rest of your pitiful life. Prodigal swordsman? Pah"—she spat in derision—"you’ll be lucky to live long enough to experience your next cycle."

Arienne narrowed her eyes and took up a lunging position. "It seems you want to continue."