Chapter 15 #2
His eyes narrow slightly. “Doesn’t matter. You’re inconsequential.”
She leans in close, invading his personal space. “Careful there, big guy, that’s an awfully big word for such a small, ignorant mind.”
A shadow of a smile curves over his mouth. “Was there something you wanted, or are you just naturally annoying?”
“There is definitely nothing here that I want.” A small laugh breaks free from her lips before she runs her eyes down his body and up again. “Or need.”
She pushes past him and toward me, throwing a wink in my direction.
His hardened eyes watch her disappear through the door. He doesn’t even look at me, just continues to stare at the door she passed through.
I quickly take the opening and scurry through after her.
I make it to class with seconds to spare.
Now that I’m here, I’m debating turning right around and leaving.
The stale smell of sweat, old blood, and fear sinks into my bones.
Padded floors, mirrored walls, and punching bags surround me.
Weapons of every kind line the walls. Faint torchlight flickers from the wall sconces, casting the entire sparring room in menacing shadows.
If there was any course that intimidates me, it’s this one.
I rub my upper arms with a sinking feeling of trepidation.
Combat Practice.
First through fourth-years are gathered around the mats.
They’re dressed in varying uniforms. Some are in their standard issue, while others don their fighting leathers.
A few third and fourth-years stand off to the side, wrapping their knuckles as they talk.
A pair of second-years are on the center mat, throwing lethal punches.
Their heavy breathing and fists meeting flesh can be heard from where I stand.
I swallow hard.
My eyes dart around the room, looking for a familiar face. Misery loves company and all that. Unfortunately, I don’t recognize any faces. I don’t know anyone here.
I haven’t had time to compare schedules with Mallory or Finnley, and Ambrose is always MIA. It feels like I see him less now than I did in his first year at the academy, when we had literal cities separating us.
In fact, I haven’t seen him since before the blood initiation took place, so I haven’t been able to confirm my theory on who it was that held me while my world went dark.
I’m so used to him catching me when I fall that I expect it to be him.
I want it to be him. But I also don’t want to set myself up for disappointment.
I glance around, not entirely sure where I’m supposed to be. Torchlight burns in wrought-iron sconces, casting shadows across the faces of the fighters. Some look nervous, others look excited. It’s equal parts trial and lesson. The room thrums with barely constrained power.
Flickers of shadow emerge from the palm of a first-year standing close to me before he snuffs them out.
I step to the side a little.
I don’t entirely trust him not to smother me with them by accident. Or let’s be honest, on purpose. The Noctryns still aren’t my number one fan.
Veils, either, for that matter.
I’m really killing it at the whole “fitting in” thing.
We stand off to the side waiting for instructions as we watch second through fourth-years battle it out. The sound of a fist meeting a jawline, followed by a grunt, reaches us from one of the sparring sessions close by.
I stand a little straighter as a handful of captains and majors walk our way, each signia standing out in stark contrast to their uniforms. A red C or M rests on each of their shoulders.
Two Veils and three Noctryns stop directly in front of us. Their eyes look us over.
Appraising.
Evaluating.
Judging.
A Veil with unruly hair and boyish features steps forward.
“Hello, first-years. We’ll be assigning you to your sparring partners,” he says.
His hands are clasped tightly behind his back while he paces in front of us.
“Today is just an introduction to the course and what it has to offer. That being said, we’ll be placing each of you with an upperclassman.
Some will be placed with officers and others with peers. ”
Wonderful.
Not only am I not a strong fighter, but pair me with an experienced one and I’ll be face-to-the-mat more often than not.
The major starts calling last names along with their sparring partners. “Porter with Wren.” The general’s son. I don’t personally know him, but I’ve heard the rumors that he’s just as slimy as his father. I wouldn’t mind watching the match go down between him and Koa.
He steps forward, moving to his designated spot. He’s on the shorter side with lanky limbs. Mousy blond hair and bland features make him completely forgettable.
“Vivinche with Ieilen,” he calls out next.
The major continues to go down the line until it’s just me and another first year.
“Caderyn and Adair,” he says.
I lift my chin and step forward.
He jerks his head for me to follow a Noctryn captain standing to his left.
We pass by duos battling it out and walk around upperclassmen doling out instructions to first-years.
He leads me to an area in the back, cloaked in low lighting and more secluded than the other training areas.
A dark wielder rests on his knees while he wipes blood from his mouth.
Another stands shirtless, his back facing us, while he quenches his thirst.
I immediately know who it is without even seeing his face.
His back ripples with muscle. Beads of sweat work their way down his trim waist. But it’s the unapproachable air surrounding him that gives away the identity.
“Adair, your sparring partner is ready,” the captain delivers before turning to leave.
The man on the mat rises from his knees and walks over to my new partner. They exchange a few words before he takes his leave as well.
We’re all alone. Lucky me.
He tips his head back, taking another long drink before turning to face me.
Stoic.
Detached.
Indifferent.
His eyes give away nothing but take everything.
“Hello, Heathen,” he says, walking toward me.
Kingston Adair.
Now I know his full name. I was probably better off not knowing it. Distance is safety with this one.
I stare at him defiantly. My mother didn’t raise a woman who cowers. Even when defeat is the clear result, you must never show them weakness. They can take everything from you but not your pride. They can only obtain that if you willingly sacrifice it. Which I will not be doing.
He stares back without emotion. His eyes are more black than brown today. His full lips are set in a straight line devoid of any expression.
His mask of apathy is fully in place.
He’s the kind of beautiful you run from without looking back.
The type that is statuesque and flawless.
The sinister and cold kind.
The kind that will leave you feeling empty as time goes on.
He lets those dark eyes roam over me, sizing me up.
I feel stripped raw by a mere look. I’m not sure what it is he’s searching for, but whatever it is, he seems to have found it.
He turns on his heel and walks over to the corner, grabbing a black shirt and pulling it over his head and down his ripped abdomen.
Someone so cold shouldn’t make me feel so warm. I instantly feel guilty. Like I committed some violation against the love I have for another.
It’s just because I’m touch-starved at the moment.
It has nothing to do with the actual man.
His dark hair falls over his brow, thoroughly disheveled from his earlier fight. He walks back toward me, looking up at me from under his thick brow while he adjusts the wrappings on his hands. “Why are you here?” he demands.
I clench my fingers in annoyance. “The same reason I suspect you are. To manifest my powers and help protect Salaryan from those who wish it harm,” I recite back in a clipped tone.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Let me try again. Why are you here?” he repeats.
I square my shoulders and widen my stance. “Did I stutter?” I reply, my voice soft but cutting.
“Did I?” he retorts in a challenge, meeting my glare head-on.
“I’m here to be a soldier,” I say with clear exasperation. “The same as every other student at this academy.” It takes every ounce of my willpower not to break eye contact.
I get the feeling this is some kind of test, and I’m pretty sure I’m fucking it up.
Royally.
He stops directly in front of me. “That’s the generic answer. I want the true answer,” he says.
“Well, that’s the only one I have to give.”
“Your mother is a Veil,” he says flatly. It’s a statement, not a question.
“Yes, and your point is?” I bite out, frustration breaking through my tone.
He lifts a hand to his jaw, stroking it as if he’s thinking about how to deliver the next blow. “She’s made quite a reputation for herself. Created big shoes to fill. Valor, sacrifice, all of it. Tell me this, are you here to earn your own reputation or compete with hers?”
“Fuck you,” I snarl.
“I thought we’ve established that you’re not my type,” he says coolly.
What an asshole.
“Are we going to spar or sit here and talk about our feelings? I can find another partner if needed.”
“That won’t be happening,” he delivers with finality.
“That easy. I got into your head that easily. The biggest aspect of being a solid fighter isn’t in the physicality portion but resides in the mental part,” he states, tapping the side of his head.
“If you don’t learn to control that facet, you will fail. Every. Single. Time.”
I nod in understanding.
Point made.
Embarrassingly so.
He looks me up and down. “The first thing we’re going to work on is form. Posture is the first step in being skilled at hand-to-hand combat.”
I steal a glance at myself in the mirror. Immediately, I straighten my spine and pull my shoulders back.