29. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The mist swallowed me whole, cool dampness pressing against my skin. When it cleared, I was no longer in leathers but strapped into armor, with iron plates across my chest, leather biting my arms, and greaves heavy on my legs. Even the dagger in my hand felt doubled in weight.
I staggered. “Gods above and below, why is it so… heavy.”
Tairngire's chuckle rumbled low as he rolled his eyes. “If you’re training with me, you’ll learn the weight of steel and iron, not just guard stances from a measly scroll.”
I glared, shifting under the drag of the breastplate. My shoulders ached. My balance was completely thrown off. “Easy for you to say. You move like you were born with steel in your bones.”
He grinned, all teeth, completely unbothered. His protective runes came alive as he flexed his arms. “That’s because I was. You weren’t. Which means…” His eyes flicked over me, assessing. “You’ll have to work twice as hard.”
I exhaled sharply. The armor suffocated me, and every joint protested.
The dagger sat clumsy in my hand, the grip felt wrong.
Innately different from the one I was used to.
I automatically lifted my right hand, tightening my hand around the hilt.
I twisted in the armor awkwardly, trying to get into Wolf Guard, like I always did.
“Wrong hand.”
His voice cut low from behind, certain. I frowned back at him. “What do you mean, wrong hand?”
“Try your left,” he suggested, chin tilting toward it, shoulders shrugging. “It’s your stronger side.”
“That’s ridiculous, I’ve killed two beasts with this hand,” I muttered, though curiosity tugged somewhere deep down. I shifted the dagger, and instantly it sat different. More balanced, it felt…right. The strain eased almost immediately, my tired body thanking me.
His eyes narrowed, watching every motion. “Rare,” he murmured, more to himself than to me.
“What’s rare?” I asked, though part of me wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. I continued to weigh the blade in my left hand, attempted to flip it like I'd watched mercenaries do in the market square, and cursed under my breath when the blade hit the forest floor.
Tairngire crossed his arms, an odd look coloring his expression. “Mortals aren’t left-dominant. Not often. And when they are—it usually means something.”
A chill licked down my spine. “Such as…”
He tilted his head. “Perhaps the Fates wove more into you than you even realize, Little Seer.”
I tightened my grip, trying desperately to ignore the way my pulse sped up at his words. “Or perhaps I have an unusual hand.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps.” But his eyes suggested he thought otherwise.
I tried again, dagger biting into my palm. The armor shifted, clanking with my every move. My stab at the air was stiff, messy. I nearly lost my footing.
Behind me, Tairngire released an exasperated sigh. “Try not to murder yourself before the enemy gets the chance.”
I spun toward him, blade raised in a rough stance. “If you’re going to taunt me, at least teach me something useful while you do it.”
Gods, I hated that dimple. He lifted his hands in defense. “I am teaching. Trial by fire. It’s the only way mortals learn.”
Damn him.
I lunged, dagger flashing. He sidestepped with ease, hands clasped behind his back like this was nothing more than a stroll through temple gardens. I stumbled past, the ridiculous armor dragging me down.
“You call that a strike?” He lifted an eyebrow, effectively raising my blood pressure. “That scroll you stole would cry to see itself so poorly executed.”
I whirled, teeth bared. “Oh? You want to provoke my ire? Fine.” I slashed low, aiming for his ribs, only for his hand to catch my wrist mid-swing.
The blade froze inches from him. Runes glowing faint beneath his skin.
He leaned in. His eyes blazing with both amusement and approval, making my skin crawl beneath his touch.
“Better.”
My heart pounded in my ears. “Let. Go.”
“Not until you stop holding the blade like it’s a candle at a festival.
Seriously, Little Seer. It’s amazing you managed to kill with that.
” His other hand slid over mine, forcing my grip tighter, guiding my stance.
“Elbow tucked. Weight on the balls of your feet. Strike with intent, not hesitation.”
“I am striking with intent.” I snapped.
His lips brushed too close to my ear and I tried to ignore the shiver that slid down the back of my neck. “Your intent,” he murmured, “is to impress me. Not kill.”
Ugh. Moment over.
I shoved against his chest.
He only laughed, releasing me at last. “There’s that flame. I wondered when it would return.”
I raised the dagger again, this time steadier. “You’re so…petty, for a god.”
“And you're improving, aren't you?" he said, circling me.
The dagger slipped again, the hilt biting my palm, armor dragging me down—slow, clumsy. I lunged, missed, spun, missed again. He never even lifted a weapon, just moved with the effortless grace of a divine, always one step ahead.
“Gods above,” I panted. “Do you ever tire of circling me like a wolf?”
“Do you ever tire of tripping over your mortal feet?” His words left no room for a response. He sidestepped another swing, letting me tumble forward until I caught myself, cheeks burning.
“You’re supposed to be teaching me.”
“I told you. I am.” He clasped his hands behind his back again, deliberately casual. “Failure teaches faster than I can.”
“Failure?” I lunged again.
He caught my wrist, twisted, and suddenly, my own blade was hovering at my throat.
“Lesson one,” he murmured, leaning down until a lock of his golden curls tickled my cheekbone, “don’t telegraph your strike under the eyes of a divine. They will predict it. Every. Single. Time.”
My pulse raced, a fluttering echo in my throat. His eyes glowed faintly. His runes were roused as if he were truly enjoying himself.
“Lesson two,” I spat, shoving against his chest to free myself, “never underestimate your opponent.”
He let go, a childlike laughter escaping him. The sound curled under my skin, I brushed off the unwanted feeling it brought. It was becoming an annoying habit to do so.
I struck again, faster this time, more honed. I aimed for his side, feinting low. He dodged both my efforts, again, and again. Steel flashed, armor clanked, breath tore ragged from my chest. Sweat slid down my temple. And through it all, he was still calm.
Insufferably calm.
“You’re thinking too hard.” His voice was as smooth as a blade cutting silk. “You fight with your head, not your blood. Books can’t teach blood.”
“You forget that I’ve felt the warm spray of it against my skin.” I snarled and threw myself at him one last time—dagger in my left, swinging wide.
He blocked easily, of course. But at the last second, I dropped it, caught it in my right hand, and slashed upward.
Woah. How did I do that?
The blade kissed his jaw. Just barely. A thin line of red swelled and vanished as fast as it came. His smirk vanished.
The silence after was louder than any strike. His eyes locked on mine, glowing, runes flaring brighter across his chest. My breath came staggered, my knees trembled under the weight of the armor.
“Better,” he said finally, voice low and dangerous. “Much better.”
The dagger slipped from my grip, clattering into the grass. Sweat dripping, armor pressing on me like stone. I stumbled back and I braced my hands against my thighs, gasping for air.
Tairngire didn’t even look winded. Of course, he didn’t. He stood there with his divine-forged blades behind his back, arms crossed, as if he’d only just begun.
“You’re terribly out of shape.” His tone was flat. Blunt. Like he’d simply just commented on the weather.
I glared up at him, my cheeks burning with both effort and offense. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” The smirk was back in its rightful place, lazy and cocky as ever. “You fight with fire, but your body can’t keep up. The first divine who drags you into battle will burn you out before the fight even begins.”
“I—” I stumbled, searching for both air and words. “You’re so… rude.”
His eyes glinted, pleased. “Perhaps. But I’m right. Where I’m taking you next will fix that.”
I straightened, ignoring the ache in every muscle, and snatched up the dagger again. “Oh? Another cryptic lesson I’ll have to bleed through while you stand there looking smug?”
“Another realm,” he corrected smoothly, stepping closer, a ripple of a promise in his voice. “One that will beat the softness out of you. Cindraloch.”
The name coiled in my chest like a serpent ready to strike.
My stomach twisted. I’d read all about it—the ash-wreathed realm, crucible of flame and stone where warriors tested themselves.
Mountains lined with bones. Rivers black from forge-fires that never died.
The land of the gods’ chosen. The half-born.
But I didn’t have time to dwell. He lunged faster than thought, his own dagger now pressing against my throat silently before I even raised my weapon. Gods, where had he even pulled that from?
“Again, watch your guard,” he growled.
And again, I went. Strike, dodge, stumble.
The salty burn of sweat stung my eyes. My arm shook.
He knocked the dagger from my hand repeatedly.
Each failure was met with some low remark that boiled my blood hot enough to keep me standing.
Until finally, when my knees buckled and lungs burned, he caught my wrist before I collapsed.
Enough, the gesture implied. But the glint in his eyes told me he’d savored every second of breaking me down, and instead of misting us back to my hut, he turned toward the river, pulling me to his chest.
My heart hammered. “You’re not taking me home, are you? We’re really going now?”
He didn’t answer. The mist rose. The realm blurred. And I knew before it swallowed us whole—
We weren’t going back.