Chapter 67 Aria
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Aria
Myla is relentless in her pursuit to show me just how easily she cannot only best me in a fight but outright kill me.
Not that I had any doubts, but the soreness in my back and hips just adds proof where none was needed.
If this is her getting payback for using my song on her, then I suppose it is deserved.
Rain still blankets the beach in harrowing sheets, its noise louder than the angry crashing of the waves at the shoreline, the tide moving in closer to the rocks inside the cavern.
“Move, Aria. We need to keep our muscles warm,” she chides from above me, my breaths heaving while I stare up at the now darkened rocky ceiling above us after a particularly nasty takedown.
“Just. One. Minute.” I gasp for breath between each word, dagger still clutched in one hand while my other rests limply on my chest.
“In a fight, you will not get a minute to rest. You’ll have to push yourself to give everything that you have, and sometimes, you’ll be asked to give even more.”
I sit up, cold stone biting into my thighs as the tunic rises to my hips. “You speak as if you’ve experienced it.”
She doesn’t answer, instead curling her fingers as she beckons me forward. “Up.”
I groan as I stand, pulling my thick curls away from my face and letting them tumble down my back. Myla readies her stance, bending her knees slightly as she holds both arms up, one hand clutching the hilt of that strange blade.
“Are the initials on the hilt of my dagger your father’s?” I avoid saying king, as the question already seems like one she won’t answer.
She steps to the side, and I mirror the movement, stepping into a puddle made from a leak in the ceiling. At least Myla’s glare has lessened from murderous to disdainful. “How about if you can draw blood from me before our lesson is up, I’ll tell you?”
Frustration surges at how every interaction has to be some sort of deal, as if the act of giving basic information costs Myla something beyond just engaging in conversation.
I’m too exhausted to pry anything out of her, so I agree, and we continue sparring.
Half an hour later, I’m no closer to her answering the question.
Sweat beads at my temples despite the cold, and when Myla lunges forward, I throw up my arm at the last minute, our blades clashing.
I hiss out a short breath as pain flares.
I must have caught the tip of her dagger.
“Why did you hesitate?” she asks, standing to her full height and dropping her guard.
I follow suit, cradling my arm to my chest while I inspect the wound. “I was running through the blocks you taught me earlier and panicked. I didn’t want to accidentally stab you.”
She blinks and cocks her head. “I thought the entire point of this was to try and draw blood from me.”
“Well not the entire point,” I counter, grateful to find that the small nick on my arm has already stopped bleeding.
“That would be defending myself. But if I draw your blood, Myla, I want to do it because I’m actually good enough to catch you off-guard.
” Using the edge of my tunic, I dab the small drip of blood away, only noticing that Myla hasn’t answered when the howling of the storm lingers for too long.
Lifting my gaze, I find hers already on me, scrutinizing me in a way that strips me bare.
On the surface, her face is set in the same cold rigidity, but beneath it, just barely noticeable, is a warmth that forces a knot in my throat. “What?”
“You can’t stop to think,” she says, her voice rough as she lifts her weapon again and bends her knees.
She jerks her chin towards me in a command to get into position.
“If you do, you’ll be dead before your next breath.
You need to practice so that these movements become instinctual, especially with how differently they’ll feel beneath the surface. ”
I nod, inhaling deeply as I watch her. Myla’s movements are quick, no preemptive thought given.
Just fluidity that speaks to the years of practice she’s had.
Why would a princess in a kingdom with dragons behind the protection of the Spell need to be so well-versed in battle?
Do the fae know that mages can pass through the Spell unharmed?
Does she know about Rhea, and her ability to heal others from the effects of the Spell?
Myla strikes, her movements quick as she attacks.
My muscles are fatigued, but I manage to block every one of her attempts.
“Good,” she says, swiping again. I jump back and smack into the wall.
Myla closes in, and our arms cross, blades singing as they meet.
She leans her weight towards me, a small quirk to her lips. “Seems I’ve got you cornered.”
I reach with my other hand and curl my fingers around her wrist. “You once said that a desperate person is the most dangerous, because they are willing to do whatever it takes to win.”
Myla nods. “I did, because it’s true.”
I swallow, and her eyes dip down for a moment before they draw back up. “My reason for wanting you to teach me how to fight was born from watching a friend die so that I could live, and it grew into something powerful when I learned someone I love needs my help to stay safe.”
“Your sister?” she guesses. I’m confused how she would know about Lyre until I remember letting it slip while she was under my song.
“Yes. I have always lived in fear, from the moment I understood what the emotion meant. I’ve been desperate for a long, long time, but I didn’t have the tools to act.
I didn’t realize how I could weaponize that desperation.
Until now.” I hold Myla’s gaze, one of her brows arching before it abruptly halts and she grunts out in pain.
“Sorry,” I say with a wince as my talon pierces her wrist.
“Fucking stars,” Myla grumbles, watching as my talon slowly retreats. She steps back and pulls the sleeve of her black shirt up, revealing only one small mark that has split the skin. “Surprising creature,” she murmurs under her breath, sheathing her dagger at her thigh and pulling her sleeve down.
I smile as I roll the dagger in my hand until the initials are facing her.
“Who is L.V.?” I ask.
Myla reaches into a pocket on the side of her vest, pulling out something wrapped in a black cloth.
When she peels the fabric back, a warm glow is cast out from her palm.
A flame gem. I had only ever read about them, the rock holding light from the sun.
She walks to where there is a dry area of sand further away from the cavern entrance, setting the flame gem down before she takes a seat herself, her back against the wall.
“L.V. stands not for my father’s name but for the last queen of Void Magic, Queen Lucia Vasiris. ”
My brows rise as I follow her, taking a seat next to her, the gem now centered between us. “And how did your father come into possession of it?” I ask, pulling the tunic over my crossed legs to cover them as much as possible.
Myla’s face turns contemplative, a rare show of something other than anger.
“My father was on friendly terms with the last mage queen prior to the war. It is said that as the war began to get closer to their kingdoms, Queen Lucia called for an emergency meeting with the fae under the guise of joining forces against the mortals, shifters, and sirens. She gave him this dagger when he arrived as a token of their friendship, but then sirens flooded the meeting grounds and began to sing. My father was able to get his dragon off the ground before he became enthralled by their magic, but many of the males he traveled with did not.” Her gaze lifts to mine, expression grim.
“Including my older brother, Shah. He had taken possession of the dagger from the queen. When my father realized Shah had not followed him into the sky, he turned back and searched by air. But my brother was never seen again. That dagger proves that he was likely pulled into the sea by one of your own, left to rot there like he was nothing more than carrion.”
My lips part, an apology paired with a lame explanation about how siren history differed bubbles up my throat, but she holds her hand out, her eyes dropping to the dagger in my own.
“May I see it?” When I hesitate handing it to her, she sends me a deadpan look. “If I wanted to steal it, Aria, I would. Besides, as you demonstrated twice today, you’re not defenseless without a blade.”
No, I think to myself. I suppose I’m not.
She inspects it when I hand it over, a pensive line carved between her brows. “According to my father’s account, this dagger had originally been a gift to Lucia.”
I tilt my head in thought. “It’s hard to imagine any of the rulers being friendly enough to give gifts,” I say, watching her trace the engraved letters with the tip of her finger.
“It’s hard to imagine my father being anything other than the callous male he is today,” she counters almost to herself as she grips the bottom of the hilt, the tip of the dagger pointing towards the sky.
Giving it a twist, a rusty sounding click rings out.
Myla carefully tugs, and the hilt separates from the blade, revealing a hollow center that she holds up to inspect.
“Dragon-made things can be imbued with magic as long as the item stays intact.”
“Is that a dragon-made blade?” I ask.
“The hilt is dragon bone. And look here.” She pauses to show me the inside of the hilt.
Unable to see what she is pointing at, I scoot closer until my knee touches her shin.
She tenses and then adjusts her leg, moving just out of reach.
I swallow the swell of confusing disappointment that rises.
Tilting the hilt so that light pours into it, she shows me a name etched into the silver: Kamon.
“That is your father?”