Chapter 2
Luna
I set two alarms and somehow slept through both of them. Thankfully, my ancestors decided to drag me out of bed. Don’t ask me how.
After running across campus for ten minutes, I stand in front of the Aureum. The training rink, a place where only the strongest survive. The building is made of dark stones, and on top, there’s a glass dome curved like a grand palace, reflecting the stormy sky. Tall, arched windows line the walls.
Across from it, connected by a long glass bridge, is the Solenne Complex. That’s where they hold the hockey games and figure skating showcases. There, reputations are made or destroyed. You have to prove you’ve got what it takes before you cross that bridge.
My chest feels tight, but not from the run. My body is used to that, from conditioning drills, morning jogs, and chasing down the bus back at home. This is nerves. I hate that jittery feeling clenching in my gut because I’m late on my first freaking day of official training. Just great.
Breathe, Luna, I repeat in my head, forcing air through the knot in my throat.
I run up the staircase, stopping at the last one to read the quote above the iron door: Vincit qui se vincit (He conquers who conquers himself). I push the door open and step inside.
My skates are hooked over my shoulders as I sprint across the main balcony of the Aureum.
At the center of the building is the athlete lounge, a massive open circle beneath the glass-domed ceiling with a view of the sky.
A balcony overlooks the ice rinks, where coaches and high-profile guests usually stand. Below the balcony, we have the hockey rink to the left and the figure skaters’ rink to the right.
I should be heading toward the right stairwell.
But the sharp sound of a puck slamming against the boards stops me in my tracks.
My head turns instinctively toward the rink.
Jerseys flash against the ice, bodies cutting through the drills.
I should already be halfway down the stairs. But then I see him.
Number 7. He moves faster than the others, with an effortless kind of control, as if the ice bends to him.
He turns, like he senses me watching him, and our eyes meet.
They’re unreadable at first, dark, and too intense for this early in the morning.
They drag me, and suddenly I’m not on the balcony anymore, but on the ice in front of him.
He pulled me into his orbit without moving a damn inch.
My pulse stutters, and everything fades. The sounds of blades scraping ice, the calls of his teammates, and the fact that I should be on the other side of the rink.
His eyes narrow slightly like he’s trying to place me. We stare at each other, for seconds maybe, but it’s long enough for my breath to catch. I tear my gaze away, breaking whatever that was, and rush down the right stairwell. What the fuck?
As soon as I reach the benches outside the skaters’ rink, I tie my skates before stepping in. The moment my blades hit the ice, everything else disappears, leaving just us. I close my eyes, letting the feeling sink in. No matter where I am, this part never changes.
I fell in love with figure skating when I was eight years old.
Sitting alone in the living room, watching a movie.
My mom wasn’t home, like the many nights before.
I don’t even remember the name of the movie.
Just the girl on the ice. She moved like she belonged there, like she was free and in control at the same time. I wanted that.
I asked my mom if I could try skating. She barely looked at me before yelling to go back to my room. I didn’t ask her again. Instead, I asked Rylee. And she didn’t hesitate. She found me a class and bought me my first pair of skates.
“Luna.” A female voice breaks through my memory.
I open my eyes and lock gazes with my new coach.
“You’re late.” She stares at me with an unimpressed look.
“Sorry, Coach, won’t happen again.” I bow my head slightly to show my remorse.
She gives me a look that says it better not.
I glide toward the center where the other two pairs of skaters plus my new partner are waiting.
“All right, listen up. You’ve trained for this moment, but raw skill is not enough in pairs.
” The coach drifts around the ice, making eye contact with a few of us.
“If you do not trust your partners, you will fail. If you don’t match their rhythm, you will fail.
And if you don’t have chemistry, you will not last.”
The rink is silent except for the sound of her skates moving against the ice.
“Today is a trial. We are assessing your ability to connect with your partner. Some of you will stay together, and others will not. There is no guarantee you will find a replacement partner.” She glances at the clipboard in her hands.
“You have thirty minutes. Run through basic footwork, spins, and lifts. We’ll be watching. ”
No good luck wishes.
“Ready to impress, freshman?” He skates toward me.
Freshman? I fight the urge to roll my eyes.
Nicholas Laurent. He’s a sophomore and my assigned partner. They put us together because our heights match. At five feet seven inches, I’m taller than the average skater, including the guys.
I reach for the small cross pendant necklace around my neck and press it to my lips.
My sister gave it to me when I was six. She said it would protect me, and I always kiss it before every skating session.
Call it superstition, but in my eleven years of skating, I’ve only had one accident that resulted in a minor head injury.
And that just so happened to be the one time I forgot to wear my necklace.
“Always.” I nod, forcing myself to breathe.
Ready or not, training starts now.
“Show me what you’ve got.” He smirks.
We begin with basic steps, warming up to a simple crossover. One foot crosses over the other as we skate in a curve to build speed, our steps synchronized.
I take the lead and transition into a twizzle sequence—three fast, one-foot spins while gliding across the diagonal.
My body moves on instinct as I bend my knee and extend my arms to stay balanced.
Then I spin through each turn. One, two, and three.
I stretch my leg back, shift my weight, and land on the outside edge of my skate.
Nico keeps up, his edges strong, but he started his twizzle half a second after I did and threw off our timing.
It’s small, and wouldn’t be noticeable to anyone outside the rink, unless you’re the coach or a judge.
But on the ice, small mistakes matter, especially in pairs.
Judges catch everything, and don’t mention the fact that one slip can lead to accidents and injuries. I’ve seen it happen.
We come to a stop in the center of the rink. Nico places his hands on my waist, preparing for a simple press lift.
“Okay,” he says. “On three.”
I inhale sharply. This is where trust matters and instinct takes over.
“One.”
I set my foot, ready to jump.
“Two.”
His grip is firm, but something feels off.
“Three.”
I jump, but his hands hesitate for a brief moment, and I feel it instantly, the split second of doubt before my body shifts too far forward.
I’m off-balance because he hesitated. And this is not new to me.
I’ve felt that pause before. Most of my partners do it eventually.
He probably thought I was too heavy for him to lift.
But no matter how much I work out or how healthy my diet is, I can’t change my body type.
I’m not skinny, but I’m not fat either, not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Every body type is beautiful. I’m just that in between.
I won’t starve myself just to fit their mold.
I try to adjust midair, pushing my weight back, preparing for a rough landing. Nico tightens his grip to compensate, but it’s too late for a clean save. My skates hit the ice too soon, too hard, and I stumble forward.
“You okay?” Nico mutters, running his hand through his short brown hair.
“I’m fine.” I straighten quickly, shaking it off. I’ve taken worse falls. I can handle this.
We try again, and he gets me up this time, but the movement is shaky and unsteady. The trust isn’t there.
I don’t trust him to hold it. He doesn’t trust me to land it.
We lower back down, and I let out a slow breath, trying to stay calm.
“Let’s go again,” I say.
Nico exhales, shaking his arms out. “Yeah, sure.”
There’s hesitation in his voice.
I swallow back my frustration, but my shoulders are tight, my fists clenched. We should be better than this. I should be better than this.
Don’t fuck this up, Luna.