They were dancing here, one of them more experienced but ugly, and the other beautiful and merely trained. Initiation into the world of battle would be given through blood, and she would need to earn her right in the world. Larkspur did not believe that this girl was a killer—she did not reek of the same darkness that surrounded Haku or himself. She was no monster. Larkspur saw her, but he did not comprehend her yet. Through battle he could learn more about the girl, a girl who was young enough to be his daughter.
She had expected his movement. A foot swung up at him and struck his side. He barely felt it. The girl was smaller then the wolves of the Khalif, and her blow was nothing to him. Four years of abuse had ruined his perception of pain. Sometimes it was as if he could not feel at all. It was the sword that he feared, and as it fell at him the wolf pulled back. He was not fast enough, and felt metal cut his face—a single downward swipe that drew blood. The scent rushed into his nose and filled his world with a red haze.
Then, and only then, did a growl rip out of his throat. It was deep and wolfish, terrible and filled with unfocused hate. Lips pulled back and ivory teeth opened wide. The wolf snapped for her arm, still at his level, his own blood staining his white fur red.
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