Chapter 17 #2
“You look much, much worse,” Leif replies, but he softens the blow with that friendly grin of his. The easy teasing reminds me of Seb, and I smile, really smile, without thinking about it.
Faelon groans dramatically. “Great. He’s allowed to flirt?”
Ryot, who has been silent up until now, steps forward, arms crossed tight over his chest. His dark eyes flick between Leif and Faelon, then settle on me.
“Enough,” he says sharply. “She doesn’t have time for this. She’s facing Maxim in a fight to the death tomorrow, and I don’t think she’s ever even held a sword.”
He quirks his eyebrow at me, like he’s asking me. I think back to digging through the soldiers’ swords while I was looking for my scythe and decide that probably doesn’t count. I give a curt shake of my head.
“So, if you’re all done flirting, we should probably do something about that,” he finishes.
Faelon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Like I said, I was only trying to make her feel welcome.”
The man who’d smacked Faelon on the back of the head crosses his beefy arms across his chest. “You can do that by helping her survive,” he says. “Not every occasion calls for joking, Faelon.”
Faelon lowers his eyes, but not in time to mask a flash of annoyance. “Yes. Caius.”
“Leina,” Ryot starts, “I believe you’ve already met Thalric and his ward Leif. Thalric is the commander of our cast. You’ve met Nyrica.”
Ryot points to the man with the beefy arms. “This is Caius.”
He next points to the youngest boy, the eager one. “This is Caius’s new ward Kiernan. Kiernan only presented a few weeks ago.”
With a touch of annoyance on his face, Ryot points to Gorgeous. “And this idiot is Faelon. How he’s advanced from ward to sentinel, none of us know. He was Caius’s ward. These are the men in my cast.” He says that with emphasis. He’s introduced me to his family, quirks and all.
“Men, this is Leina Haverlyn.”
Caius keeps his arms crossed over his broad chest. Kiernan is trying very hard not to gape at me, but you can see that the idea of a female Altor is still something his brain hasn’t fully processed. Same, Kiernan. Same.
Leif wears the same easy, friendly smile I remember from the infirmary. Faelon is smirking. Nyrica flashes me a kind smile, and I startle when a dimple winks out from that chiseled, hard face. Thalric looks at me with those piercing green eyes that I swear bear the burden of a hundred souls.
Thalric nods, stepping back. “We’d better get to work.”
Ryot strides over to the weapons rack on the side of the field.
There are swords—long and slick, thick and heavy, short and jagged.
Interspersed are daggers of all lengths—some curved, some straight—along with bows and arrows, spears, axes, hammers, whips, and other weapons that I can’t even name.
All of them are blunted, to avoid the worst kinds of injuries.
He grabs a sword from the mix and tosses it to me.
I catch it by the hilt with reflexes that have been terrifying my family for years.
The pain that flares through my body is a reminder that I’m here for a reason.
A goddess wants me here. And I’ll not have others paying the price for my failure.
I toss the sword from one hand to another.
It feels natural, but it doesn’t feel right .
It’s not part of me, not like my scythe or my shears.
Ryot’s expression is grim as he looks at me. “You need to understand exactly what you’re up against.” His dark eyes sweep over the others. “One word, each of you. Describe Maxim’s fighting style.”
There’s a beat of silence before Thalric speaks, his voice steady.
“Crushing.”
Leif, arms crossed, nods slightly. “Relentless.”
Caius exhales, jaw tight. “Brutal.”
Kiernan shifts on his feet, glancing between them uncertainly. “Overwhelming.”
Faelon isn’t smirking. His gaze is distant, like he’s recalling something unpleasant. “Sadistic.”
“Merciless,” Nyrica’s answer lands heavy. Each word paints a picture I don’t like.
I swallow hard. “Great,” I say. “He sounds just … great.”
Nyrica claps his hands together. “Now for the fun part—how to kill him.”
Thalric’s tone is measured as he answers first. “He’s heavy-footed.”
Leif nods. “He telegraphs his moves.”
“He’s quick to tire and slow to think,” Caius says.
Kiernan, despite his inexperience, speaks with certainty. “He expects fear. Don’t give it to him.”
Faelon smirks now, but it’s distinctly not flirty or friendly. It’s bitter. “He doesn’t just expect fear. He needs it to feel in control. Take that away.”
Ryot’s gaze meets mine. “He’s mortal. He dies like anyone else.”
I turn their words over in my head. Slow. Predictable. Stamina. Fear. Control. Mortality.
Thalric rakes his eyes down me. Not in a sexual way, but in a methodical way. “We need to play to your advantages, Leina. What do you think those are?”
I’m not as strong as these hulking men. Not even close, even with my Altor gifts. I’m not disciplined like they are, not honed into a weapon through years of training.
But I do know how to survive. I know how to take the hits that won’t stop coming, how to grit my teeth through the pain and the grief and keep moving. I know what it means to endure.
I lift my chin, squaring my shoulders, trying to push away the doubt. “I’m smaller,” I say. “Faster. He doesn’t expect me to last long, and he isn’t taking me seriously.”
Ryot nods, encouraging. “Good. What else?”
I flex my fingers against the hilt of the training sword. “I can think on my feet. I have to be smarter than him.”
Faelon lets out a low whistle. “That’s not a high bar.”
Caius smirks, letting out a sound that’s a mix of a laugh and a grunt.
Ryot ignores the interruption. “Maxim’s going to taunt you, wear you down, try to make you scared. That’s his game.” His voice hardens. “Don’t play.”
Thalric gives a short nod. “Use his arrogance. He expects you to be weak. Let him believe that—until you strike.”
Kiernan, standing on the edge of the group, shifts on his feet before speaking up. “If he swings wide, he’s open. You could use that.”
I exhale, taking it all in.
I’m not walking into that arena to beat Maxim. I’m walking in there to survive him.
Thalric steps back, nodding toward the open space in the training yard. He gestures Nyrica forward. “You’ll face Nyrica first. His fighting style is the most chaotic, probably the most similar to Maxim’s that we have in our cast.”
Nyrica walks toward me with easy steps. “Let’s see how you move, Leina,” he drawls, with a flash of his dimples.
Then he swings his arm around and an axe that was propped against the stone wall leaps to his hand, as if they never should have been separated.
Then he’s raising it high over his head and slamming it down.
I leap back, breath already heaving. The axe crashes into the dirt where I’d been standing with a force that shakes the ground beneath my feet.
The packed earth doesn’t only give way—it explodes in a shockwave of dust and loose gravel that’s blinding.
I close my eyes against the grit, and I’m immediately shoved into the dirt, a booted foot on my back pressing me into the ground.
“Let her up,” Ryot calls from beyond the cloud of dust. The boot lifts from my back and I drag in a desperate breath, coughing on the dirt that I inhaled from the ground.
I come to my feet with a certainty that tomorrow is going to be as close to impossible as anything I’ve ever done, goddess or no goddess.
“Learn anything?” Thalric asks.
I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, spitting out grit. My ribs ache from where Nyrica knocked the air from my lungs, my arms sting from little scratches from the gravel.
I glance at Nyrica, who’s still grinning, still flashing that disarming dimple, his war axe propped against his shoulder like it weighs nothing. Thalric stands beside him, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and expectant.
I roll my shoulders. “Yeah. That axe is a real pain in the ass.”
Nyrica barks a laugh. “Wait until I actually hit you with it.”
I don’t dignify that with a response. No one could survive a direct hit with it, even blunted.
“Again,” I say.
Thalric lifts a brow, but there’s approval in his eyes. The younger ones nod encouragingly, like they’ve been here before.
“Shift your stance,” Thalric says. “Roll to the balls of your feet and keep your body loose, so you can move quicker.”
“And don’t ever close your fucking eyes in a fight,” Ryot says, his voice as rough as the gravel digging into my skin.
“If you’re in a sandstorm, if the heavens have opened in a deluge, if blood is running over your face so thick that everything you see is coated in red—Keep.
Your. Eyes. Open. Because the second you blink, the second you flinch, someone faster, meaner, and less merciful will put you in the fucking ground.
” He gestures toward the crater Nyrica’s axe left.
“You close your eyes tomorrow, and you won’t be getting up again. ”
I bristle, but he’s right. I force myself to meet his stare. My pulse is still pounding, my breath uneven, but I set my jaw and nod. “I won’t close them again.”
Thalric nods to Faelon. “You’re next, Faelon. Don’t go easy on her.”
Faelon flashes a beautiful smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” His sword is longer than I am tall, and he twirls it like it’s a twig instead of a weapon that could cleave through every bone in my body. “Let’s see if you can stay on your feet this time, princess.”
I plant my feet, steadying myself, and then I jump forward, swinging first.
Because I’m not a princess.
I’m a survivor.