She was angry.
Anger persisted as a side effect of her ability to control fire; the emotion rolled through her like molten lava, threatening to spew through her pores at any given moment. The mind, Aurora would always say, controlled the body, therefore the mind should always be strong. (Of course, Angelia would not always agree, being more agile than mentally controlled.)
But the soul, Felice interjected softly, superseded them all.
Her soul toiled with restlessness and fury. Perhaps that was why, when she picked up the bo, even though her mind and body had transcended to a space of peaceful tranquility, her fingertips darkened the mahogany wood.
“You can refuse you know,” he told her, back straight, the grip on his own bo firm but casually dangerous.
A muscle twitched in her thigh–the only movement of her body. Her soul, on the other hand, smoldered with contempt.
“Like hell I will,” she shot back.
The weight of the looks from their allies thickened the air between them. The wind held its breath; the sun did not blink.
She sprang first, swinging the stick as rushed forward. He stopped her onslaught with a smooth lifting of his own bo. Every move of hers, he evaded. Every blow, he blocked. Goddammit! she cursed inwardly. She wanted to win. As the blood thudded through her body and mind, her soul coveted victory. Yes, Felice won the argument this time.
However, her mind produced an idea: burn him.
Their training focused not only their physical and mental development but also on their special abilities. They were gifted. Why else were they here?
Her eyes narrowed on a spot on her opponent’s hand. Wanting to best me, are you? Her eyes went tawny. Let’s see you forget me now.
The bo clamored to the ground as a cry met the spectators’ ears. They watched as he paused, looking at his hand, then looking at the dark-haired young woman before him in stupefaction.
Her soul was smug. No matter how many times he defeated her now, that scar would be there forever.