Page 119 of The Vixen

I see it like my brain is a computer. A kick to the back, two elbow jabs to the spine, and a quick snap of the neck. Done. Lesson learned among the Keepers.

And in the two seconds it takes for me to see this play out, I realize my mistake. I need to slow down.

Instead of capitalizing on the attack, I back up a couple steps, my fists raised as I wait. His right arm dangles limply. He cradles it a moment before letting go and raising the left, his breathing turning ragged a minute in.

My ribs complain at the contortions I’ve been forcing on my body, and instead of blocking it out, I invite it in. I hone in on it, feeling each bruised muscle, every nick of bone.

And when Alaric comes at me a third time, I raise my fists to my face as if I’m going to block a punch that isn’t coming. He’s one arm down and zero for two; he isn’t stupid enough to throw a fist.

He tries another trick move. Instead of telegraphing his next strike, Alaric moves with the sharp, decisive speed of a trained fighter. He doesn’t waste time with feints or hesitation. Instead, he shifts his weight unexpectedly, switching stances mid-motion, his injured arm held close to his body as he pivots.

His booted foot swings low—not at my ribs this time, but at my ankle. A sweep. A good one.

Smart. Me on the ground is the only way brute force wins.

I react instinctively, leaping just enough to let his kick pass beneath me, but he’s already anticipating my counter. Before I even land, he explodes upward, driving his left fist toward my side with crushing force.

It connects.

My teeth clamp down on my tongue while pain lances through my ribs, and I stagger, exhaling sharply at the impact. My vision pulses with the throb of my wounds, but I don’t block it out. I let it settle, let it bloom. Taste the blood that fills my mouth.

A murmur ripples through the crowd, a burst of anxiety from people who believe me to be invincible. I try not to think of the cruelty I’ll have to inflict to repair my reputation.

I steady my breathing and meet Alaric’s gaze. His expression is fierce and controlled. There’s no gloating, no hesitation, only unwavering focus.

Good. He isn’t making this easy.

I lick blood from my lip and shift my stance, raising my hands in invitation. "Again."

Alaric doesn’t hesitate. He lunges, using the force of his momentum rather than strength alone, turning his body to compensate for his injured arm. His footwork is precise, disciplined. He’s adjusting to the damage, adapting his fighting style on the fly.

Impressive.

He aims for my temple this time, and I barely slip past the blow; the wind of it grazes my cheek. He’s faster than before. It’s amazing what our bodies and minds are capable of when we believe we’re running out of time.

I twist behind him, but he pivots before I can fully capitalize on the opening and swings his elbow backward in a sharp arc.

I could dodge.

I don’t.

The impact cracks against my already bruised cheekbone and whips my head sideways. A collective gasp shudders through the gathered Keepers. Blood drips from the corner of my mouth.

And in that moment, as I recover, I meet my father’s gaze.

He stands at the edge of the arena, his cold eyes fixed on me. For the briefest instant, I see a flicker of concern, a split-second of hesitation in his ironclad composure. Too concealed to call it remorse, too visible to say it isn’t regret.

If I died, it’d be because he wounded me. Thorne would believe it. Then the Keepers would believe it. Then everyone else would follow suit.

A self-destructive and quite possibly insane urge comes over me as the blood sweetens on my tongue. If I lay down, it’d cost me my life, but Father…

Father would lose everything.

As if he can see the thoughts swirling in my head, Thorne swoops in with a, “Come on, Luna,” in the most pained, worried voice. It steals my fire and leaves embers in its wake.

This isn’t easy for him to watch.

I let the pain settle deep in my bones, let it show in the slight bend of my knees, the shift of my shoulders.