The Dragons' Child

In a very low voice, Areta asked, “Have you any training scars?”

Draega looked startled at first, but her eyes quickly told Areta the answer before she spoke.

“No.”

Areta’s expression went from curious to angry even as Draega watched.

“Have you been holding back?!”  Areta did not give the younger woman time to answer.  “Have you been giving me less than your best?  This will be the last time you disrespect me!”

Areta attacked Draega in earnest.  She pushed a surprised Draega backwards several steps with her blows, but she was now defending herself as if her life depended on it, for she was suddenly not sure it did not.

Areta’s grey-green eyes blazed with her determination to test the girl’s true mettle.  Draega was good.  Better than she’d let on, but she was exceedingly cautious about avoiding injury, far more protective of her body than most, unwilling to exchange even the slightest cut for victory.  That was an attitude that could even mean death in a real battle and Areta was determined to cure her of it now.

Draega managed to strike several minor blows that drew blood, but the priestess was not even fazed.  She just kept coming, relentlessly seeking blood of her own.

Both their bodies were drenched in sweat by the time Areta’s sword hit its mark, a minor scratch really on her forearm, and Draega’s weapon disarmed and standing in the dirt of the practice yard.

Draega was good, very good, and as she’d expected, better than she’d let on.  But it was Areta’s greater experience that had finally overcome the younger woman’s raw talent.  Areta nodded her head to her student in respect.  Raw talent went a long way.

It was only then that she noticed the cut on Draega’s arm, and that the blood that spilled from the wound was not red like her own, but black—the colour of Dragons’ blood.