Ivy was beautiful when she frowned, the result of delicately shaped brows, symmetrical features and full lips that pouted naturally. Her eyes held a trace of fear that could have made even the weakest of men feel needed. She looked the way princesses in fables were described; like a damsel to be saved from distress.

But she wasn't a damsel, and I was a gladiator by trade, not a knight. Ivy had proven herself to be a competent opponent in the previous match, and so I eyed her, slowly but surely disassociating what I saw from any recognition of human worth.

Her competence both eased and provoked me. On one hand, the student body would not suffer unduly because of her recently awarded membership to the High Pack; that was something to be grateful for, at least. But it also meant that Ivy had experience. Experience with fighting, with winning, with working her way up through the ranks. It meant there was a chance, however slim, that she could beat me today.

I tasted something bitter and bit my tongue, dampening the flavour with salty blood. Whatever her previous qualifications, whatever her experience, I would not lose this fight.

"Silver-steel?" Ivy questioned, gesturing towards the array of blades on the weapons trolley. Fashioned from a unique blend of steel and sterling silver, the swords, daggers and knives glittered like diamonds in a jeweller's shop window.

"Is there a problem with that?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

It was a rhetorical question, and she knew it. Of course there was a problem with silver weaponry; werewolves were allergic to the metal, and it could end up killing one of us before the day was over.

That was the point.

"No," Ivy lied. It was almost convincing.

I sensed a familiar presence looming at the borders of my mind, so I waved the girl toward the trolley. "You choose first," I said, already turning away.

It didn't take long to locate the face that went with the questing thought. He was staring straight at me, blue eyes burning brighter than driftwood consumed in flames. Before engaging in the telepathic union, I tucked my thoughts into an even stricter order than usual. It was a ritual of mine, one that all members of the High Pack knew of and accepted without question. Mental unions often came at the price of privacy; how many times had a careless or distracted werewolf distributed their secrets amongst the members of an entire pack, to the embarrassment and horror of all involved? How much had those revelations cost them?

I refused to pay those prices.

Within the space of a few seconds, the mental rearrangement was complete. Satisfied that all of my secrets had been stowed away in some deep recess of my brain, I let down the guard around my thoughts and waited for Colden to invite himself in.

I didn't need to wait for long. Eager to speak his piece, Colden's thoughts splashed against mine. The sensation was both shocking and clarifying, like stepping underneath the icy cascade of a waterfall. Each of my thoughts rippled with an exquisite shiver. Whatever the reality of our feelings, our telepathic connections had always been something to savour, despite the legions of information we held back from each other. Even now, I could feel Colden holding back; his thoughts were coiled tight, tighter even than his muscles as he strove to keep our aspirations and emotions and memories strictly parallel.

Tighter than my muscles?

The telepathic question thrummed with amusement and power, reverberating in my skull. I tried not to visibly wince, feeling heat flood in my cheeks. Out of everything he could have overheard, out of all the embarrassing things he could have picked up on, why did he have to catch that strain of thought?

I'll have you know, nothing is tighter than my muscles.

Suppressing a snort of laughter, I studied him from across the arena, taking in his tall, muscled form and the way he crossed his arms. That navy cotton shirt hugged him a little too tightly, clinging to his shoulders and well-defined abs. I felt my lips twitch with a traitorous smile when I realised I could probably use his stomach as a washing board to scrub my clothes clean on.

What were you after? I asked.

Colden sobered. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling guilty to have snapped him out of an easy-going mood. He so rarely had the chance to have fun. Being a member of the High Pack was like being a parent, but worse. Instead of being responsible for a handful of children, we were responsible for a thousand odd children, not including the members of the High Pack (who could also digress into childish fits).

Be careful out there, he sent at last. I'd hate to see you get hurt.

I blinked, a little surprised. I'd been expecting an order, or a debriefing, or something that related to High Pack business. His concern was wholly unexpected, and as a result it took me several floundering moments to formulate a reply. I'll be careful, I finally managed. But I couldn't hide my bewilderment. Colden wasn't the type to make emotional declarations. Everything was business with him.

Picking up the gist of my thoughts, Colden scowled. Something negative — irritation, or perhaps frustration — surged through our telepathic connection. I recoiled from the unpleasant heat of his emotions, withdrawing from his mind to provide him with space to cool down. The action only angered him more, and in a swift move he anchored himself in my head, forgetting to shield some of his thoughts in the process.

It turned out the irritation wasn't directed at me, but at himself. Colden was grasping for an adequate way to voice his feelings, and he was failing. But what were those feelings? I couldn't quite grasp them; the frustration Colden felt was too strong, eclipsing all else.

You shouldn't have encouraged the use of silver weaponry, he sent eventually.

It was my turn to feel anger. It was my decision to make, I sent back, severing our connection. Colden had no right to berate me for making a choice without proactively specifying what choice he'd prefer me to make. Telepathy or no, I refused to be expected to read his damn mind.

In the time it had taken us to talk, Ivy had chosen her weapon. She held a katana in her hands now, about half the length of her body.

"Excellent choice," I remarked, taking it from her. The blade was straight, approximately half a palm wide, with a spine as thick as my smallest finger. "A sharp edge with generous reach."

As I'd suspected this morning, Ivy was smarter than she looked. She'd picked a weapon that could both skewer and slash, and was light enough to wield with relative speed and technicality. I handed it back to her, wondering what I should pick to combat that.

I settled on two combat knives, different models but similar in construction. I could cut with both sides of each blade, and both sported a ring in the grip that I could hook a finger through to prevent them from being knocked out of my grasp. The only significant difference between the two was that the knife in my right hand had a silver talon equipped on the hilt.

The crowd roared their recognition of the weapon I was most proficient with. Somewhere in the distance, I heard Colden issue an order for somebody to remove the weapons cart from the field. The wooden apparatus groaned beneath the weight of its burden, but I payed the complaining contraption no heed. Ivy consumed my attention now.

I watched her, taking in as much information as I could. Her shifting clothes were well worn, and the leather had moulded comfortably to her body, indicating that she could move with flexibility. The laces on her left boot were loose; perhaps I could take advantage of that? Finally, the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear suggested she was left-handed.

Information is invaluable, lectured a stern, matriarchal voice in the back of my head. Knowing your enemy can mean the difference between life and death.

I understand, I replied, even though her voice was only a delusion. I'd killed the person it belonged to long ago.

"Let the battle commence!" Colden shouted, and in that instant, I returned to my childhood.

It was time to kill or be killed.