Chapter 10
Lucina
The pile of stone from the maze sits just outside the training ring, like a broken statue or monument, and I feel like I might crumble beside it.
I’m close to passing out, dried blood mingling with fresh sweat on my skin as I steady my feet beneath me. I can tell from the position of the sun in the sky that it’s nearly lunchtime, which means we’ve been at the Yard for four hours already, and my mender pill is close to wearing off.
My braid is useless and messy, rogue curls clinging to the damp skin between my shoulder blades.
I ditched my t-shirt after the first round of this godsforsaken game, but I’m still burning up in my sports bra and shorts.
They used to be grey but are now a lovely shade of murky brown—dirt, sweat, and blood.
At least the sweat will make me harder to catch.
“Don’t go easy on her,” Callan shouts at Easton from where he sits behind me.
Tied to a chair.
“Flags don’t talk,” I remind him. Again. I don’t take my eyes off Easton.
We’re playing capture the flag. Except Easton’s “flag” is Devon, and mine is Callan.
I have to get past Easton, reach Devon, and free the ropes that hold him, all while preventing Easton from getting past me to do the same.
The kicker is, we can’t use magic, and we were only given one weapon—a blade that Easton has had the whole time.
At Callan’s order, the round starts, and Easton stalks forward, knife hanging at his side. It’s still dripping with my blood.
I need it to cut Devon’s ropes, but I haven’t been able to take it from him without slicing myself open in the process. I’ve yet to disarm him—I’ve hardly injured him—but I’ve at least done a damn good job at protecting my flag. Callan has remained in his ropes the whole time.
But so has Devon.
I charge before he does, taking up the offensive instead of being forced to defend like every round prior.
Easton swipes for my torso, but I dodge it, and on the upswing of his next thrust, I grab his wrist with both hands and put all my weight into pushing it down. My grip, thanks to the sweat, starts slipping. The knife begins rising…
I release him and turn, side-stepping the thrust of the dagger and barely missing a knife to the forearm. Backing up only a few steps, I put more distance between us and wipe my sweaty palms in the dirt, hoping that will give me better purchase.
Easton moves to my side of the ring, and just like that, I’m on defense.
Again.
He tries to get past me, but I hook a foot behind his ankle, reaching for his wrist as he stumbles forward. He shifts at the last second, his hand twisting, and I hiss when the blade splits my palm.
Fresh blood runs down my wrist, panic settling into my veins at how slowly the wound heals.
“Running low on mender magic…” I grit out in Callan’s direction.
“Flags don’t talk,” he throws back at me, and I roll my eyes.
Easton is back on his feet in seconds, but I’ve already wiped my bloody palm in the dirt, wincing at the burn of the cut.
I’m charging forward before fear can prevent me from doing so.
I grab his wrist and yank it behind him, pivoting so I’m able to kick in the back of his knees at the same time.
With the combination of my body weight and his vulnerable angle, I’m able to push him to the ground. Barely.
I can tell by how quickly his muscles fold that he’s getting tired. Maybe not as tired as I am, but he’s certainly not as sharp as he was four hours ago.
His movements might be sloppy, but his skin is just as slippery as mine. We both pant as he fights to free himself of my hold while I fight to keep it, shifting my grip to get closer to the hand that holds the dagger.
Running out of options, I swing a leg up, dig my knee into the back of his neck to keep his face in the dirt, and begin prying his fingers off the hilt.
“Fucking hell, Easton,” I grit out, fighting with his iron grip. “Let. Go.”
“No!” he grunts, shimmying his shoulders in an attempt to roll me off. Easton manages to get his other arm beneath him, lifting us both off the ground in a trembling one-handed push-up.
He tosses me off his back, and I curse as I hit the ground, forearms slamming into the dirt. Forcing myself to my feet, my vision focuses on Easton, who is now sprinting towards my unguarded flag.
“Dammit!” I swear, taking off after him, every muscle and bone in my body protesting at the movement. In the last step he takes towards Callan, I leap towards his ankles, managing to drag him back to the ground with me.
Easton shouts as he hits the dirt, the knife flying from his hands and landing a few feet away. There’s a brief moment when neither of us moves, and then it’s a scramble to see who can get there first.
We’re a tangle of tired limbs and dirt-covered skin, and by some gods-damn miracle, it’s me. I make it first.
Snatching the dagger off the ground, I force my body in the opposite direction and charge to where Devon sits.
Unguarded.
I push myself harder than I have so far, practically flying across the training ring and throwing myself in the dirt behind Devon’s chair.
All I manage is one severed rope before Easton catches up to me, grabbing my biceps to haul me back. Before his grip can tighten, I thrust my elbow into his stomach.
He pulls harder.
I press back against him, shifting my angle so that when my elbow slams back, it connects with something hard.
Easton curses loud enough that I flinch, and judging by how close his scream was to my ear, that must have been his nose.
The aftershocks of the strike throb through my elbow and up my arm as I continue sawing through the rope, and with one final slice of the knife, the rope at Devon’s wrists falls. It hits the dirt behind his chair, and I slump down with it.
Fucking finally.
Easton kicks the dirt, one hand cupped over his nose as blood drips down his chin.
“Sorry,” I sputter, but he waves me off.
“Don’t be.” Devon stands from his chair and extends a hand out to me. I politely decline it, deciding I need the ground’s support for a little bit longer, and something about my denial of his assistance amuses him. The threat of a smile twitches his lips. “You did what you were supposed to do.”
I force in another deep breath and glance across the training ring. Callan’s already freed himself from his ropes, wincing at Easton’s injuries as he approaches.
“You should go see Gemma,” Callan advises him.
Easton shakes his head at the advice, but Devon takes him by the shoulders, leading him towards the exit. “I got it.” He tells Callan.
I watch as they step over the fence to the training ring, hearing Easton mutter under his breath, “I better be a fucking flag next time.”
I let out an exhausted laugh, and when the next breath fills my chest, a giant shadow blocks out my sun.
It takes tremendous effort to look up at Callan.
“Are you hurt?” He asks, bent at the waist, palms pressed to the tops of his thighs. Silver eyes sweep across my body, lingering on the places coated in dried blood.
“Probably.”
His stare cuts to mine. He’s too serious for his own good. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.” I hold up my hand, and he takes it, hauling me to my feet. Once I’m standing, I drag in a few more deep breaths, hands propped on my hips.
When I look back at Callan, the intensity in his face has softened. “I haven’t seen Easton get his ass beat since we were kids.”
I scoff, lifting my arms over my head to stretch out the sharp pain in my lungs. “Callan, he beat my ass for four hours straight.”
That makes him laugh. “But you held your own the whole time.”
Mercifully, he hands me what’s left of my water, watching as I down it in one gulp.
“The only thing you need to work on is—”
“Flags don’t talk.” I step around him, rubbing the dried blood from my wounds on my ruined shorts. “No critiquing until I’ve been fed lunch and dinner.”