Chapter Twenty-Three #3
The man stares at me for a long moment before tipping back in his chair and howling with laughter. “Okay, who set this up? Was it Ryndall? The little prick. Well, the joke's over because I’ve caught on. Really, what is your wielder’s mark? I’ve got a job to do here.”
I arch a silent brow at him, giving him time to put the pieces of reality together himself.
He leans forward and drops his voice. “You're actually serious ?”
He catches on faster than I thought he would. Good for him.
I do a little bounce on my toes. “Yup.”
He sweeps his eyes slowly from the tip of my head down to my feet. “You have to be one of the oldest late-bloomers I’ve ever seen. What in god’s veins are you doing here?”
“Competing.”
“ Competing ?” he repeats. “You manifested your magic this late in life—mere days ago, as you say—and you intend to take the entrance exams into the most prestigious magical academy in the whole gods-damn Three Kingdoms? A task examinees will spend the better part of a decade, if not their whole lives, training for?”
I fold my arms across my chest. “I think saying ‘this late in life’ is a bit dramatic,” I grumble, a frustrated sigh sneaking past my lips. “But you’ve spelled it out perfectly. Now, will you just record my name so I can move along with my foolish plan?”
His face falls into a scowl, but he scribbles my name and alleged magic type onto the parchment. “Fine,” he mutters. “It’s your funeral.”
I dip my chin at him. “Thank you.”
I’m just turning to walk away when he calls out to me again. “Izacalli. I don’t recognize the name. Where is it from? ”
I lift a lazy hand and shrug. “From my mother, I suppose.”
His frustration becomes palpable. “Not what I meant. Do you come from a noble house? Is the name from some new cadet branch? What’s your heritage?”
“The truth?”
He arches a pointed brow. “I don’t know why you’d assume I want anything else.”
I huff a weak laugh at the reply. “The truth is I know nothing of my heritage.” A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “But no, I’m not from a noble house. Just a plain, lowborn commoner is all.”
As I turn on my heels, I hear him mutter under his breath, “Your funeral, indeed.”
I’m laughing quietly to myself, my fingers lightly grazing the ice necklace resting at my throat, when I spot Gray locked in conversation with an older gentleman. Curious, I wander over.
Gray turns his attention to me, a smile stretching his lips. “Lyra,” he says, strangely jubilant. “Come meet Josiah. He’s a long-time friend of my father’s.”
The man, Josiah, turns to face me. “Lyra Izacalli,” he coos in a soothing, regal voice.
“It is very lovely to make your acquaintance.” His tanned skin is a beautiful backdrop against his rich blue eyes and long white hair.
In a way, the wear of life looks good on him.
Gives his face a sort of inviting appeal.
My brows dip as I observe Josiah more closely. He looks familiar. Like I’ve seen him somewhere. “Have we…” My head tilts with my growing curiosity. “Have we met before?”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “Not in any way of consequence. Though, I do remember you from my time spent in King Alastair’s court recently. You were his prized night attendant, if I recall correctly.”
I blink at him, my memory lagging.
Until it finally hits me.
He was there the night Gray told me he was leaving.
The king had been hosting travelers from Bathara and emissaries from Erandor.
I remember a man with salt-and-pepper hair talking to another with long, white curls.
They were discussing Sterling and the Nightenjoy line, along with their noble titles—or lack thereof, I guess.
“I remember you,” I inform him with a slow drawl. “You were with that man who had gray and white hair.”
“Vague description, but yes. His name is Cahlmon. A bit ill-tempered at times, but overall a good man.” He pauses, rubbing the tips of his fingers underneath his lips.
“I must admit, I did not expect to see you here. It’s not often a king relinquishes one of his most cherished servants.
” His eyes hold onto me. “Yet here we are. What a twisted, unpredictable thing fate is.”
Gray crosses his arms, the corner of his lips tugging up. “My father told me to find him once we arrived. It appears he has done us a service and found me instead.”
Josiah chuckles, the sound warm. “You have grown since I last saw you. Why, you were no more than a couple feet tall back then. I apologize for not seeing you during my last visit. It was brief and centered around political matters, unfortunately.”
Political?
The wording strikes me.
Why would Bathara be in Rivara Kingdom on political business?
Let alone with Erandor emissaries present.
If it had something to do with the Jurafen, then emissaries from the Anatolé Kingdom would’ve had to be present as well.
Bathara and the Jurafen answer to no king; they do not involve themselves in politics in order to better protect and serve the Three Kingdoms of Solaya.
Strange, indeed.
“Your hair is fully white now,” Gray says through a taunting smirk.
Josiah nods, amused. “Indeed it is.”
“You’re officially an old man it would seem.”
“At last,” Josiah sighs. “Your long-running nickname for me is a fitting one.” He folds his hands in front of him.
“Your father told me you traveled through Foreigner’s Valley.
As it so happens, Bathara also had scouts in the valley.
If it’s alright with you, I’d like to speak with you in a more private setting about your time there. ”
I catch the slight twitch of Gray’s brows. “Of course,” he agrees .
“Excellent. If you’d follow me, then.” Before he goes, Josiah faces me and inclines his head. “Lyra, it was such a privilege to finally meet you. I’ve always heard such wonderful things from Sterling.”
My heart strings feel like they’ve suddenly been pulled taut. “You have?” The words slide from my tongue faster than I can think better of it.
“Yes,” he replies through a soft smile. “I have.” And then with fluid grace, Josiah turns and saunters off toward Bathara’s inclining marble stairwell, to what I’m assuming is the main entrance.
Gray reaches for my hand and squeezes. “This shouldn’t take long. Will you be alright by yourself?”
I lift a brow. “Think I can’t take care of myself?”
He plants a kiss to the side of my head. “Never.” Then he flashes me a parting grin. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Gray jogs to catch up with Josiah, following him up the stairwell and through the towering doors. Through a long-winded sigh, I turn back around, scanning my surroundings.
To my surprise, I find eyes of many colors watching me, scrutiny simmering in their stares.
My guess?
Word must have already spread about my magic and less-than-glamorous bloodline.
A feat that might surprise someone who hasn’t spent the last four years in direct service to a king, attending to his courtiers, emissaries, and appointed nobles.
But for someone who has—someone like me—it’s not the least bit shocking.
Women, for some reason, have been bestowed the reputation of being gossipers. But all it takes is an hour in a room with men to know that isn’t the least bit true. Men are the real gossips. They just take the action and dress it up using the word politics .
I glimpse a bench wedged between rose bushes, and I’ve never been so relieved to see an isolated stone structure before. I make my way over, but pause when I overhear a booming female voice.
“I said,” the voice echoes in a way that leaves no room for questions, “I’m fine. Thanks . ”
I peer around a waterfall of wisteria and see a girl with coppery-red curls brace her hands on her hips.
A loud voice spews from a tall, blonde-haired man. “Come on. It’s my duty as a noble to ensure the commoners stay fed. The rich exist to help the poor. It’s a system as old as the god Raffir himself. Don’t be prideful. Let me help you.”
From my viewpoint, I see the backside of his head and arm as he attempts to shove meat into her hand. “Take it. It is dried venison seasoned with the best Juniper berries your lips will ever have the privilege of tasting. I ask nothing in return.”
Her voice cuts like a lethal blade. “I have no desire to feast on your provisions. I have plenty of my own.”
“Stop being difficult and just accept my generosity.”
“I do not need your generosity, nor did I ask for it.”
“Well, the loose-fitting rags hanging from your slender body say otherwise.”
I watch as she turns away from him and walks in the opposite direction. He reaches out and grips her arm, yanking her back toward him. “I’m not don—”
Before he can finish his sentence, she cocks his wrist up and swings around behind him, bending his arm at an angle that makes my insides twist. He grunts in pain. She tugs harder.
“Touch me again, and I will snap your arm like the little twig you are. Understood?”
Red-faced and eyes watering, the blond-haired man nods and whimpers a small, “Mhm.”
“Good,” she chirps as she drops his arm and boasts a delighted grin.
He mutters a string of curses under his breath and scurries away.
Once he’s out of sight, I step out from the wisteria, garnering her attention. “Can you teach me that?” The words come out awed—breathless, almost.
She observes me with her vibrant cobalt eyes for a long moment, a notch in her coppery brow. After an excruciating silence, her head cocks to the side. “Have you received any previous training in self-defense or fighting systems?”
“A little.”
Not entirely a lie. I have—a few days’ worth.
She continues watching me, a curious expression in her eyes. “Show me what you know.”
“Excuse me?”
“Show me one of your moves,” she elaborates.
Now it’s my turn to arch a brow. “Are you sure? I don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” Not that I’m some incredibly trained fighter, but still…
She smirks and pops a hip. “Don’t worry,” the woman assures me, her tone a bit wicked. “You won’t.”
I chew at my cheek, thinking about which move I should use on her.
Judging from what I witnessed, she’ll know the basic moves Gray taught me.
But isn’t everything I know pretty basic?
I search my brain, replaying all the lessons, all the skills Gray drilled into my muscles.
Eventually, one move in particular shines above the rest. A move he taught me because I requested to know.
“Choke me,” I instruct.
She inspects her nails. “Sorry, but that’s not really my kink.”
I roll my eyes and click my tongue. “You’re the one who asked me to show you something.”
She drops her hand back to her side. “Fair enough.” The girl strides over to me and forcefully—plus with admirable strength—grips me by the throat.
Following Gray’s instructions, I grip her wrist, reach for her fingers, and yank them backwards, bringing her to her knees. I twist out of her hold and swing back, kicking her directly in the shoulder, making sure to pull my kick to prevent her actual harm.
A tiny grunt escapes her lips at impact, but nothing more. She braces her weight on her knees and gets right back up, as if the kick was nothing at all. Which, I know I pulled the force of it, but the ease of the gesture is still a little disheartening.
She brushes strands of her coppery-red hair from her alabaster skin. “ Impressive.”
The satisfying warmth of a small victory floods through me. “Thanks. So, you’ll teach me that move?”
She dusts off her blue and black tunic, a lopsided smirk tugging at her lip. “Only if you teach me yours.”
I grin, extending my hand. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Our hands meet in a firm clasp, and we shake on it.
“I’m Lyra.”
“Marcella,” she replies.
The lack of a surname confirms to me what I just witnessed between her and that man—she is like me.
Someone without titles, without some noble name to wield or hide behind.
It brings a smile to my face—different from the one I wear around Gray, or that finds me in moments of happiness.
This smile is…appreciative, perhaps? Grateful, even?
Her eyes hold mine, and she assesses me with a discerning gaze. As if finding an answer to some undisclosed question, she hums a laugh and shakes her head, deciding something.
My face scrunches together. “What?”
Before she can answer, a booming voice echoes through all of Bathara. All wielders partaking in the entrance exam are to report to the Arena immediately. I repeat, all wielders report to the Arena immediately.
When I glance back at Marcella, I find she is already three steps ahead, strutting forward toward the Arena.
I scurry to catch her. “Hey, wait. What was that look about?”
She glances at me sidelong. “Why do you think it was anything worth sharing?”
“Call it intuition.”
Marcella keeps her pace quick, eyes forward. Still, I catch the subtle curve forming at the corner of her mouth. “You’re a fighter,” she supplies. “I can see it in your eyes.”
My voice is soft. “How?”
She halts—only for a moment—and faces me. “Because those stitched from the same threads will always recognize each other.”