Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Cold slaps me in the face.
Literally.
I jolt upright with a choking gasp, ice water dripping down my neck and soaking into my blanket. My short hair is plastered to my forehead, my tunic clinging to my skin.
“What in the—Leif!”
He’s standing over me with an empty bucket and a completely unrepentant look on his face.
“By the gods, Leina,” he says, shaking his head and tossing the bucket into the corner, “you can’t sleep that deeply. You’re a warrior, not a stone.”
“I was exhausted,” I grumble, peeling the wet blanket off my chest and glaring up at him.
“We’re all exhausted, all the time. You still can’t sleep like that. I called your name five times. Shook you. Poked you with my sword.”
“You what?”
“Gently!” he says, throwing his hands up. “You think I’m reckless with sharp adamas before I’ve even had coffee?”
I groan and swing my legs over the side of the cot, water dripping off my shirt. Godsdammit. I’ve been in the barracks for nearly two months, and this is the first time I wasn’t the first one awake. With “you’re an abomination” Tyrston nearby, half the time I don’t think I sleep at all.
And, unfortunately, now that we know the Kher’zenn are hunting me, I’ve not been allowed to escape the barracks to go on any more patrols. Not until winter is finally here, though there’ve been no more attacks.
“You could’ve shaken me harder.”
“I did! You growled and rolled over. And then mumbled something about swimming in the darkness and Ryot and kissing?—”
“Leif!” I jump up on my tiptoes to slap my hand over his mouth, looking over his shoulder to find we’re the only ones left in the barracks. The heat of a flush spreads up my chest and my neck until it warms my cheeks. Sweet Serephelle, I had a sex dream about Ryot.
Leif smirks, taking a dramatic step back. “Sounded like a great dream. I wouldn’t want to wake up either.”
I grab at my holsters and my weapons, my hands clumsy, like they’re still swimming around in the darkness. I fumble the buckles—twice—before I get them latched. “You better hope I forget this by the time I’m holding a blade.”
He grins, already halfway to the door. “You’ll thank me when you’re not doing laps up Godswatch Peak for being late.”
“Wait—what day is it?”
“Weapons training,” he calls. “And if you don’t get all that—” he gestures broadly to the chaotic mess of me trying to strap on my scythe, half-dressed and still dripping wet, “—together in the next twenty seconds, we’re going to be very, very late.”
I curse under my breath, dragging on my boots.
The holster strap refuses to buckle properly, so I give up and carry the damn scythe.
Leif’s already out the door. By the time I catch up with him I’m a little out of breath, and Leif looks a lot more serious, the thrill of waking me up with a bucket of ice water apparently gone.
The corridors are empty as we make our way toward the training grounds. We really are the last ones out.
“You know the part in your vows,” he starts, voice quieter now, more careful, “about forsaking your family?”
“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I think I remember the part where I bind my life to the gods and give up everything I’ve ever loved or wanted. That bit really sticks with you.”
He flushes a little, but nods. “Right, well. About that.”
His eyes skirt to me before he looks forward again, avoiding my gaze. “The Synod doesn’t mean forsaking your past family. They mean forsaking any family—past, present, or future.”
I crinkle my brow a little in confusion. Any kind of family is the last thing on my mind. I’m not exactly daydreaming about little scythe-wielding toddlers.
“So?” I ask him.
He clears his throat awkwardly but stops. He looks down at the floor, his cheeks flushed. This must be serious if he’s going to risk being late.
“Altor aren’t allowed to have relationships,” he says. “We’re not allowed the distractions of anything serious, of anything … emotional .”
I frown. “Okay. I wasn’t exactly planning to settle down and raise goats, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“That’s not what I’m getting at,” he says, and finally looks at me. “You’ve been spending time with Ryot.”
“Well, yeah. He’s my master.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”
I flush now, because I do. I don’t want to talk about it. I open my mouth, then close it.
“Leina, I’m not judging. But I am warning you.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Yes. Yes, you do.” His voice is firmer now. “Look, you wouldn’t be the first two to couple off. But I don’t think it’s an easy life. And if something were to happen between you two—something real—it wouldn’t end in anything good. Not for you. Not for him.”
I exhale sharply, turning my eyes forward. “Nothing’s happening.”
“Maybe not yet,” he says.
“It’s the bond from the unnaming ceremony,” I say. “It’s stirred up all these feelings. You know?”
Leif looks at me like I sprouted wings. “No,” he says, flatly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“When you mixed blood with Thalric, you didn’t like, change a little? You can’t feel him?”
Leif’s eyebrows wing straight up into his hairline. “I’m sorry. What?”
Now it’s my turn be confused. “You know. Like a … current? An awareness? A weird sense that he’s close, or?—”
“Leina,” he cuts in. “No. I cannot feel Thalric because of the unnaming ceremony. The cuts are just symbolic.”
My stomach knots. “Oh.”
Leif narrows his eyes. “Wait. You can feel Ryot?”
“No!” I say, far too fast. “Not—no. Not feel him. Just … sense him. Maybe. Occasionally.”
Leif’s looking more bewildered and freaked out by the second, and now panic rises in my chest at the realization that this connection isn’t normal, isn’t part of the oath.
“I’ve had weird dreams my whole life,” I tell him. “It’s nothing. It’s always nothing.”
He looks at me doubtfully.
“It’s nothing,” I say again, and I ignore the hint of desperation that lines my voice.
We both jolt when the door to the training grounds bangs open, and one of the men from Atherclad stalks inside, Tyrston on his heels.
His gaze falls on me, and it’s not kind. “Do you two have permission to be late?” he growls at us. Tyrston glares behind the man’s back, like he’d be glad to watch us receive a whipping.
Leif turns on his heel toward the door. “Yes,” he says curtly, and shoves open the door to the training grounds, dragging me behind him. I think Leif is even more nervous about Tyrston than I am. The other ward definitely doesn’t like me, but for the most part we barely see each other.
The Atherclad man grumbles something about how soft Stormriven is as we dart past him, and Tyrston’s vicious eyes follow us until the door closes.
We break into a run when we both see that the grounds are full, morning meal well and truly over.
Godsdammit, making it through a full day of training without a meal is going to be a bitch.
We sprint toward the Rav’eth section, and skid to a stop when we burst through the iron gate to find the session is in full swing—literally.
Nyrica’s in the ring, lazily striking arcs with his axe as Faelon circles him with his daggers.
Faelon darts in and out, his footwork smooth and taunting, each strike designed to irritate more than injure.
To the side, Kiernan’s soaked in sweat, chest heaving as he powers through a round of pushups.
His shirt’s discarded, and his skin is streaked with dust. Kiernan’s the only one who looks over at us when we enter.
Of course, Thalric still doesn’t miss us.
“You’re late,” he clips, arms crossed. He doesn’t turn around.
We don’t answer. There’s no excuse worth giving, and he wouldn’t listen even if there was. Leif peels off toward the weapons racks, already reaching for the cover that will blunt his blade. I follow, scythe still clutched in my hand because I never did get it holstered properly.
In the ring, Faelon and Nyrica are still going. Faelon ducks under a wild swing, rolls, and pops back up grinning like this is the best part of his day. Nyrica doesn’t chase him. He pivots, lets the axe drag through the dirt, and waits for Faelon to try something clever again.
I grip my scythe a little tighter, trying to focus, to breathe, but my eyes betray me. They drag toward Ryot. He’s off to the side, talking with Caius. But he’s … off, somehow. His posture is too stiff, not fluid at all. He turns to me, jerkily, like he can feel the heat from my gaze.
“Leina,” he says.
I incline my head, careful to keep my expression blank, neutral. Not that it stops my pulse from slamming against my ribs like a war drum.
“Master,” I answer.
I don’t miss the way his eyes narrow, the way his midnight blue eyes bleed into storm black.
Before I can make sense of it, Faelon comes flying out of the ring in a spectacular arc and lands in the dirt at my feet with a grunt.
“That was cheating!” He groans out, holding his hand to his side.
“All is fair in love and war, boy,” comes Nyrica’s clichéd reply. He twirls that axe in his hand and flashes his dimples at us. “Who’s next?”
Ryot calls his blunted sword from the weapons rack, and the whoosh of it sliding through the air cuts through the busy yard, bringing all chatter and motion to a stop.
“Me and Leina,” he says. “She has something to learn today.”
My palms go damp on my scythe, and it almost slips from my grasp. “What’s that, Master ?”
He stalks toward me, furious. “That this isn’t a game. That every single man here has already risked their life for you, and they’ll have to do it again. The least you can do is be on fucking time.”
My scythe nearly slips from my grasp, but it’s not nerves now. It’s rage. Anger twists my insides, snarling in my chest like a beast rattling its cage. He’s been harder on me since the patrol a month ago.
But godsdammit, in the last two months I’ve lost my parents.
I left my brothers behind, swore to forsake them.
I was kidnapped—by him. I’ve killed in cold blood, and been beaten, cut, and strangled.
I’ve survived an encounter with a goddess.
Been deprived of sleep. And somehow walked away from not one, but two encounters with death demons.
And he’s upset that I slept five fucking minutes past sunrise?
I step into the ring, boots grinding into the packed dirt, and try to breathe past the thudding of my pulse.
Ryot’s broadsword gleams under the morning sun, slung easily in his hand, as if it weighs nothing, though adamas is the heaviest of metals.
He rolls his shoulders back and angles his stance, all calm brutality and simmering command.
I grip my scythe tightly. “I’m here now,” I say again, voice flat, masking the storm inside me. “Let’s train.”
He nods once—and then he moves.
Like the last time I fought him, he’s there and gone.
The first strike is a feint—his blade comes in low before pivoting up in a wide, arcing slash.
I jump back, barely clearing it, and my scythe swings up instinctively to block the follow-through.
The force of his blow jostles my grip and sends vibrations up my arms.
“Don’t block me like I’m your equal,” he snaps. “I’m stronger. I’m bigger. That’s not how you win.”
I grit my teeth and spin, letting the scythe arc around me. He steps out of reach.
“Use the length of the scythe,” he says, circling me. “Don’t pull in close unless you want to die.”
I swing again, wide and clean. He ducks under it and barrels toward me, shoving me with his shoulder and knocking me off balance. I stumble, catch myself, and whirl back into position.
“You’ve got speed,” he growls. “So move. You stay still too long, you die. Again.”
He charges, his blade coming down. I pivot and swing my weapon in a sweeping arc toward his legs. It whistles through the air. I nearly nick him before I realize my scythe isn’t blunted for training yet. I abort the swing.
He’s livid, but not that I nearly hit him.
He’s furious that I missed .
“Disarm me , Leina. Swing wide. Cut the angle. Take my weapon, or I take your life.”
His next swing comes hard, and I duck low, sliding beneath it. My scythe lashes out. He hops back, but only barely.
“That’s better,” he says.
We crash again—his blade meets my shaft with a resounding crack . I twist, using the curve of the scythe to hook his sword, like he’s been teaching me.
He yanks it free before I can leverage it. “Faster.”
I’m panting now, arms trembling. I strike high, then low, then pivot around his left side and drag the scythe across in a tight arc aimed for his wrist.
He grunts and jerks back.
I almost smile. Then he slams the flat of his blade into my thigh. Pain lances through with enough force to drop me. I hit the dirt, gasping for breath, hands white-knuckled on my thigh.
He stands over me, breathing hard.
“This is what failure feels like,” he says, voice low and rough. “This is what it feels like when you’re too slow. When you miss your shot. When your hesitation gets someone killed.”
I stare up at him, breathing hard. I want to scream that I’m trying, that I’ve lost too much, that I’m holding everything together with frayed threads and stubbornness. I want to cry.
But I don’t. Instead, I try to stand. My leg buckles, sending me back into the dirt.
He tosses a thick, leather-bound book to the ground beside me. It lands in the dust with a solid thud .
“You’re done with weapons training for the day,” he says. “Go to Elowen and have her do something about that leg. While you’re there, study. If you can’t outmatch their strength, outthink them.”
I slide my bad leg out to the side and use my good leg to come to standing. “Yes, Master .”
There’s a flicker in his eyes, but this time it’s not heat. It’s regret, maybe. It’s there and gone so fast I don’t know.
He turns to Leif with jerking movements. “Get her there.”
Leif moves to wrap an arm around my waist. I take the support, because if I don’t, I’ll eat more dirt.
But I’m not humiliated. I’m furious.
I hold the book with dirty fingers. After Leif and I turn the corner, I look at it.
The Treatise on Tactical Collapse. I’ll learn everything inside this damn thing.
So next time, I’m the one knocking him into the dirt.