“Most wisely,” said Erec. “But what you forbade were duels of honor carried out to the death. I propose a duel to three strikes only, myself against Rachelle Brinon. Any blood that we shed, you have already sentenced to fall.”

Rachelle bolted to her feet. “Sire,” she said, and then stopped. She needed a clever retort, a way to turn his suggestion into a joke that nobody would dare to take seriously enough for the duel to go forward.

“Well?” The King raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not good enough to perform before you,” she said finally. That was at least flattering.

“She brawls often enough with the Bishop’s bloodbound, and bests her half the time,” said Erec.

“But—” said Rachelle.

“She’s just shy,” Erec went on. “We have a wager between us, you see, that the next time we fight, the loser must give the winner a kiss.”

And he winked at her.

Rachelle’s face heated. That’s not true, she wanted to yell, but she knew that protestations would only seem like proof, and Erec would just make her look even more ridiculous.

Armand was still sitting right behind her. She didn’t dare glance back at him.

“Really?” said the King. “How charming. Duel her, then, and may the best one of you enjoy the spoils of war.”

Rachelle bowed numbly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

A minute later, they had cleared a wide space in the lawn and Rachelle stood a pace apart from Erec, her sword drawn.

“Why did you have to lie to him?” she demanded quietly.

“But, my lady, how can you object? Surely either way, the victory is yours.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, and knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say, because his eyes crinkled with suppressed laughter.

“Excellent.” He smacked her shoulder lightly. “Then you’ll fight better and have the delight of disgracing me before the King.”

He knew she wouldn’t. He knew she had never been as good at sword fighting as he was. Her brawling with Justine was just that—wild, enthusiastic violence for the sheer satisfaction of throwing each other across the room.

Erec had all the precision and control she had always lacked. When he fought a duel, he was perfectly capable of slicing off his opponent’s buttons one by one, accompanying each swipe of his sword with a witty remark. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he would cheerfully slice her dignity to pieces and make the court laugh at her.

And she would have to pretend to laugh along with them, or only look more ridiculous.

They saluted each other, took two steps away, and turned back. They lowered their swords until they barely touched, halfway down the blade.

You can fight him, Rachelle thought, if you stay calm. He’s counting on you to get angry.

The rustle and mutter of the crowd faded away. Erec filled up her world: his narrowed eyes, the glint of his sword, the way he leaned his weight just slightly to the left.

“Now,” said the King, though Rachelle only realized she had heard the word a moment later, so absorbed she had been in watching Erec and trying to gauge how he would strike.

When he moved, it was barely more than a twitch of his sword. Rachelle parried too hard, and left herself wide open for the tip of his sword to slap against her chest.

“First point,” he said.

He wants me angry, Rachelle thought, circling him. He wants me angry so I’ll make mistakes.

She tried to keep calm. But he kept attacking her in swift little flurries that would just barely miss scoring points against her, not because she was blocking them correctly—she could never quite do it right—but because he had the control to stop his sword or turn it aside just a moment before it hit her.

He was patronizing her. And anyone who knew anything about sword fighting could see it.

“Come, d’Anjou,” said the King jovially. “You’re not giving us much of a show.”

“Do you hear that, my lady?” said Erec. “Our King demands amusement.” His voice had a wry slant of you and I know this is stupid. Having picked a fight and made her look a fool, he was now offering a truce.

“Fine,” said Rachelle, and kicked him in the face.

Though he dodged at the last moment, it sent him staggering backward in a way that should have been satisfying. But he only laughed, somehow making it sound like she had done it to please him, and he approved.

Then he attacked. The next few moments were a whirl of dodges, lunges, kicks, and leaps. They were indeed putting on a show: nobody but bloodbound could have maintained this kind of speed for so long, let alone dodged each other’s blades without being sliced to ribbons. Rachelle knew this, and she knew she was fighting better than she ever had against Justine.

She still wasn’t fighting well enough. Erec scored a second point against her—this time a quick tap to her arm—and then redoubled his attack. Rachelle tried to match him, and she was fighting better than she ever had in her life, but no matter how fast she moved, he was faster, dancing at the edge of her reach and laughing at her with his eyes.

Laughing. Because he knew he was going to win, and this duel was going to last precisely as long as he wanted it to.

A cold pressure pounded inside her temples. Icy sweetness shivered down her veins. The Great Forest was in her blood and it wanted her now.

With a numb, dazed panic, she realized that she wanted it too. She couldn’t want it, and she was trying so hard to resist that she stumbled, and suddenly the tip of Erec’s sword was hovering an inch away from her face, mocking her because Erec could use the power of the Forest to make himself perfect and she never could.

If she couldn’t win, she might at least decide when the duel ended. With a snarl, she lunged toward Erec, dropping to her knees at the last second to skid under his blade and stab upward.

He caught the blade with his bare hand. Blood leaked out between his fingers, but he grinned.

“I dub thee,” he said, “the lady of my heart.” And he tapped his sword to her shoulder, taking the final point and winning the match.

Rachelle stared blankly at the ground. Her heart was still pounding from the fight; tears and fury clogged her throat. Around her, she could now hear applause, laughter, and muttering as everyone admired him.

His finger tilted up her chin. “Don’t forget our wager,” he said.

Despite the duel, he wasn’t breathing hard at all; there was barely a drop of sweat on him.

Blood still dripped from his fingers, but she was the one who now had it smeared across her chin.