Page 33 of Accidentally Fearless

But it wasn't enough.

Krenix's assault was overwhelming. For every position we held, he pressed two others. His soldiers fought with the desperate energy of a force that knew this was their final chance—win now or lose everything, and they were pushing us back.

I was on the perimeter, fighting. The formal attire from the Council session was gone, replaced by the battle armor I'd grabbed from the nearest ready station. My claws were extended, my training sword in my primary hand, and I fought with the cold precision of a warrior who had trained for this his entire life.

But between engagements, between the blur of combat and the grind of holding the line, I kept looking for Rory. I kept checking the command platform, tracking the flash of bronze from her borrowed tunic amid the darker armor of my soldiers.

She was safe. She was directing the defense. She was doing her job.

And then Krenix himself appeared.

General Krenix pushed through his own line with the confidence of a commander who had decided to end this personally. He was taller than me by two inches, his scales a deep emerald green, and he moved with the confidence of a warrior who had never lost a single combat engagement.

He looked at my forces. Then he looked at the command platform where Rory stood and smiled.

"Commander Talon," he called, his voice carrying across the field. "Your human has cost me dearly. But wars are not won by humans. They are won by warriors."

In the old code—the oldest code, predating the modern honor system by centuries—a commanding officer could challenge an opposing commander to single combat. The outcome would decide the engagement. It was rarely invoked because it was absolute. The loser yielded everything.

"I invoke the Right of Singular Challenge," Krenix said. "My blade against yours. Your valley against my retreat."

The fighting slowed, then stopped. On both sides, soldiers lowered their weapons and watched. The Right of Singular Challenge superseded all other engagement rules.

"Vrex." Rory's voice, from the platform. Tight with fear. "You don't have to—"

"I accept," I said.

The combat circle formed organically—soldiers from both sides creating a ring around the two of us, the ancient ritual overriding the modern battle. Weapons were set aside. Armor was removed to the minimum—tradition demanded it. Two warriors, two blades, and the valley hanging in the balance.

Krenix was fast. Faster than I expected, and I had expected him to be fast. His first strike came before the formal signal, a violation of protocol that the observers allowed because the Right of Singular Challenge had its own, older rules that predated such courtesies.

I blocked and countered. He deflected and pressed forward, his emerald scales catching the light of the fires his own forces had set, and his blade was everywhere—high, low, feinting left and striking right, testing my guard with the patient aggression of a warrior who had been studying my fighting style for three years.

He was better than me.

The realization settled in my bones after the first two minutes. Not by much, not by the kind of margin that made the outcome certain, but he was faster, his technique more refined, his stamina apparently bottomless. Every exchange cost me more than it cost him. Every counter I launched, he read and adapted.

Three minutes. He tested my high guard with a feint-strike combination that forced me to overextend my parry. The opening was brief—a fraction of a second, but he saw it.

The circle of soldiers around us was silent except for the impact of blades and the scrape of clawed feet on stone. Five hundred warriors watched. The valley hung on every strike.

Four minutes. He used the opening. A feint high, then a dropping slash that caught my ribs—shallow, because I twisted at the last moment, but first blood was his. The pain was immediate, a hot line across my lower scales that told my body something was wrong even as my training told my body to ignore it. Blood—dark, almost black in the firelight—dripped onto the stone.

My breathing was heavier than his. I could hear the difference. His came in controlled, measured pulls. Mine was starting to labor.

Six minutes. Another cut, this one on my forearm—the arm that held my blade. He'd targeted it deliberately, opening a line in my scales that bled freely and disrupted the bioluminescent pattern along my arm. The light sputtered and dimmed. My grip shifted fractionally, the blood making the blade's handle slick.

The ground beneath us was uneven. My footing was uncertain. His was not. He moved like he'd been born on this patch of ground, every step exact, his center of gravity low and controlled.

I was losing. I knew it, not as opinion but as physical fact. The slight delay in my responses. The fraction of a second longer each parry took. The growing weight of my blade, which had been forged for my hand and had never felt heavy until now.

Krenix felt it too. His smile widened.

"Your parents fought with more fire," he said, low enough that only I could hear. The words were chosen like weapons—aimed where my armor was thinnest. "Your mother lasted seven minutes on the eastern ridge. She was magnificent. Will you do better?"

Rage. Pure, incandescent rage that whited out my vision and made my claws extend involuntarily.

It would have gotten me killed if I'd been any less trained. Rage made you stupid. Krenix was counting on it.