Chapter 18 #2
I glance up, startled by someone speaking out loud, and twist around.
A vaguely familiar blonde man is walking toward me from in between the many rows of tents.
It’s Fox’s friend from yesterday, the one who told me that they usually expect soldiers to die.
I wrack my brain trying to remember his name. Lars? No, Luka. That was it.
“Morning,” Luka says cheerfully as he reaches me. “Seriously, is that a squirrel?”
“Oh, er, yes. His name is Eugene.”
“Never seen anyone feed one of them by hand before. Is he friendly?”
I start to say yes, but break off as Luka plops down on the log next to me and reaches out to scratch Eugene on the top of the head.
I glance at him sideways, unsure. He seems nice enough—something in his easy smile reminds me of Jett—but I’m not certain if I’m even supposed to be talking to him.
Fox never exactly gave me a handbook on wolf pack etiquette.
Clearly reading my hesitation, he says, “I was introduced, remember?”
“Yes, I remember meeting you.”
“Then why the frown?” he asks, grinning.
“Sorry,” I say, fidgeting with my spoon. “I, I mean, we, uh, don’t live with shifters normally. I’m still trying to remember all the rules.”
“Makes sense.” He nods in understanding. “If your mate introduces you to another male directly he’s allowed to talk to you.”
Oh. Oh, I understand now, and actually now that I think of it, I remember Fox introducing Kai to me too. Before then, Kai had ignored me. That explains a lot.
“Am I allowed to talk back?” I ask.
“You’re allowed to do whatever you want, it’s us that’s supposed to ignore you.” He grins. “It sounds stupid, but it’s actually a good rule. Prevents a lot of fights from breaking out. Shifters can be really territorial.”
“Got it.” I smile in relief. “And I understand. Fae are possessive too, especially about their bonds.”
“What’s a bond?”
“A mate. We call them soul-bonds, but I’m told it’s the same thing.”
“Hmmm,” he looks genuinely interested. “Is it rare for you to find them like it is for us?”
“I don’t know about rare, but certainly not everyone forms a bond. I know several bonded couples though, Fox and I live with a few.”
Luka looks confused. “You live with a lot of other Fae?”
“Well, yes. There’s always people at the manor now, all our friends, but also the servants and the soldiers and sometimes the rest of the court.”
Luka’s eyebrows shoot up, his mouth forming a small ‘o’ of surprise. I suddenly wonder if I’ve said too much about our home. Maybe Fox wouldn’t want me sharing details about the manor and our court. I clear my throat and pivot. “Are you hunting more wyvern today?” I ask, stirring my porridge.
He shakes his head. “Probably not today since the alpha is still recovering. We’ll be in the field with everyone else.”
“Training?” I ask hopefully, leaning forward on the log.
He nods, then his eyes shift to something beyond my shoulder, his eyes suddenly wrinkling with amusement. I follow his gaze and see Fox striding toward us across the clearing, his jaw set tight, eyes locked on us with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
“See? Territorial,” Luka mutters conspiratorially.
I grin. “He can hear you.”
“Oh, I know.” He winks, and once again reminds me uncontrollably of Jett.
I laugh, even though I know Luka is wrong. Fox is only pretending to be my mate, so he can’t use the protective instinct excuse. He’s not being territorial, he’s just being his usual grumpy self.
Fox reaches us, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. He doesn’t say anything, but I can practically feel his irritation radiating off him in waves. For the first time, I’m actually glad he can’t speak aloud to me about everything—at least not here, not now, with everyone watching.
I turn to Fox, trying to keep my voice light. “I was just asking about training.”
“What about it?” he grinds out, still frowning.
“I want to go too. I think I might die if I have to wait around in the tent again all day.”
His jaw remains tight, but after a moment he gives a brief nod. “Sure,” he says, the word clipped. “You can come.”
Luka’s eyebrows shoot up. “You can fight?” The surprise in his voice makes my spine straighten.
Before I can answer, Fox cuts in. “‘Course she can,” he snaps, his eyes flashing as they move from Luka back to me.
“Are you any good?” Luka asks me.
“I like to think so.”
“Is she really?” he asks Fox.
Fox just nods, a barely perceptible movement, but coming from him, I take it as extreme praise. I glow with pleasure at the compliment, and my mood instantly lightens another few shades.
After breakfast, I follow Fox out of the camp, Luka trailing along beside us. When we climb a low hill and look down at the field on the other side, the sight stops me short.
There are soldiers everywhere, far more than I even realized were in the camp. At least seventy-five wolves are spread out across the field, some sparring in pairs, others cleaning their weapons, and still more clustered into small, tight-knit groups.
“There’s a lot of you,” I say, using Luka’s presence as an excuse to speak aloud.
Fox’s eyes scan the field. “This is about half the camp. Everyone else is out on hunts.”
“Do those usually take up a lot of time?”
“Yeah,” Luka says, nodding vigorously. “We usually go out in groups of six, or sometimes twelve, and can be gone for weeks or months at a time.”
“Interesting.”
I raise my eyebrows as I scan the field, taking in the organized chaos. Despite knowing that they’re shifters, I don’t actually see a single animal anywhere on the field.
“Why don’t you fight as wolves?” I ask, voicing a question that has been nagging at me since we first arrived. It seems like they might have some advantages that way. Of course they couldn’t use swords, but I’d think their teeth would be a good enough substitute.
“Sometimes we do.” Fox points to a group on the far side of the field.
I squint in the direction he’s pointing and my brow furrows in confusion.
There’s maybe ten or twelve soldiers in that group and they’re all firmly standing on two legs, so it takes me a moment to realize what Fox is talking about.
The soldiers don’t look exactly humanoid.
Many seem to have partially shifted, so they’re larger with the elongated heads and claws of wolves, but the bodies of men.
My eyes widen in alarm, and Luka laughs “You’ve never shown her a partial shift before?”
“I have,” Fox growled, sounding annoyed.
“When?” I demand, glancing at him. “I don’t remember—”
I break off as he hooks a finger under his top lip and pulls it up to show me his teeth. Before my eyes they grow longer and sharper, then retract again.
I’m dumbstruck, but my hand flies to my throat, remembering how easily he pierced his teeth through my skin before…other things became more distracting. “I guess I didn’t realize. Can you show me more?”
“Not right now,” Fox mumbles
“Why? Can you do just one part of your body at a time, or could you be half a wolf if you wanted? I’m not afraid if that’s what you’re worried about, I just really want to see—”
“Stop,” he nearly groans, cutting me off.
To my absolute shock, I see the color rise on his cheeks and the tips of his pointed ears turn distinctly red. I don’t know what he’s so embarrassed about, but I’ve never seen him blush before about anything, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
Luka also looks like he’s trying not to laugh. His eyes shift out of focus in the way I’ve come to understand means he’s saying something in his head. Fox stiffens and aims a half-hearted punch at the side of Luka’s face, but he ducks, grinning, then runs off to join another group.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Fox says, still looking slightly pink around the ears. “I thought you wanted to spar.”
“I do.”
“Then let’s go.”
Fox turns and makes a pointed beeline toward the other end of the field and I have no choice but to trail along after him. He finds an empty patch of grass and turns to face me, cocking his head in an expression that says: “Whenever you’re ready.”
I reach tentatively for the hilt of my actual sword, then pause. I’m used to using practice weapons, but we don’t have any.
Clearly thinking the same thing, Fox frowns. “Wait here.”
He turns and walks over to the nearest group of wolves. I watch him approach a tall woman, presumably asking to borrow some of their practice swords. While he talks to her, my eyes fall on the rest of the group and my jaw drops open.
The woman Fox is speaking with is the only adult in a crowd of little children who look no older than three or four.
They’re standing in rows and seem to have been mirroring the movement of the woman who must be their instructor.
Some children are still practicing, and I recognize the exercises instantly as the same ones Fox put me through when I was first learning to use a sword.
I tear my eyes from the children as Fox walks back toward me with two practice swords in hand. He tosses one to me and I catch it by the hilt, feeling its familiar weight settle into my palm. His eyes lock with mine, and he gives that slight nod I’ve come to recognize means: “Attack me.”
We circle each other, then I swing, Fox parries. He lunges, I dodge.
I remember how when we first practiced I couldn’t even hit him. Now, as we weave back and forth, I can tell it’s harder for him to evade me. He might not be putting in all his effort, but I don’t think he’s letting me win anymore, either.
We trade blows back and forth, until after a few minutes, I notice we’re falling into a rhythm—like dancers who’ve rehearsed the same steps too many times.
I’ve spent so much time with Fox at this point that I’ve recognized his biggest weakness: he can’t break from his patterns.
He’s a superb fighter—probably one of the best here, if not the best. He’s objectively better than me, but that means he doesn’t think he needs to try very hard to win.
I can see it now as we spar—the way his weight shifts before he strikes, the slight narrowing of his eyes before he feints.
He’s falling into a predictable pattern.
I feint as if I’m going to do the same move I’ve been trying for a while, then duck and swing the other way.
The wooden sword connects with Fox’s ribs with a satisfying thwack.
His eyes widen, genuine surprise flashing across his usually composed face.
A triumphant laugh bursts from my throat before I can stop it.
He stares at me, the surprise on his face shifting into something darker, hungrier. A thrill races up my spine, electric and immediate. I suddenly want to bolt across the field, knowing he would follow—knowing he would catch me.
Suddenly, I hear a chorus of high-pitched cheers and whip around to find we have an audience. A semicircle of children has formed—the little ones sitting cross-legged at the front, some of the older ones standing behind with arms crossed, studying our movements.
Fox catches my eye, a sideways glance that acknowledges our unexpected spectators.
Thankful for the interruption, I flash a wide grin. “I think they want to practice too.”
I’m expecting Fox to ignore me, or at the very least say they’re too young to fight.
What I am not at all expecting is for him to grin widely, dimple showing, and turn to the children with his wooden sword balanced casually across his shoulders.
“Who wants a turn?” he asks, his voice lighter than I’ve ever heard it.
The young children don’t seem as bothered by speaking out loud as the adults are, and immediately clamber to join in.
Fox crouches down to the children’s height, demonstrating a simple parry with exaggerated slowness.
His wooden sword moves through the air like honey dripping, each position held just long enough for small eyes to track.
When he nods, five tiny bodies lunge at him at once, wooden swords swinging wildly, their high-pitched battle cries filling the air.
My heart practically melts as a tiny girl with wild curls latches onto his leg while a boy no higher than his knee attempts to climb his back like a tree. Fox pretends to stagger under their weight, his face softening in a way I’ve never seen before.
The little girl’s practice sword connects with Fox’s stomach. His eyes bulge comically as he pretends to clutch at his “wound,” staggering three exaggerated steps backward before collapsing in slow motion—first to his knees, then sprawling flat on his back with limbs splayed like a star.
The little girl shrieks with laughter, raising her sword in victory while her friends cheer. I join in grinning and clapping, until all at once, a horrible thought breaks through the back of my mind.
How long until that little girl will be expected to kill actual monsters?
Six years, maybe? Less than ten, surely, if the children are considered old enough to fight at twelve.
How many of these children will die before they ever get a chance to grow up?