Chapter Twenty
I find Gray shirtless, doused in sweat, and already running through movements with his sword.
Approaching him from behind, I clear my throat, gaining his attention.
He drops the tip of his blade to the ground and turns around, leaning against the hilt with a smile on his lips. “Welcome back. How do you feel?”
“I’ll feel a lot better after I do this.” I flick his nose. “If you ever withhold an injury like that from me again, by the gods, I will deal you your next lethal blow myself.”
Gray’s brows kick up as the corner of his lip curves up into a soft smile. “Fair enough.”
I continue looking at him pointedly. “There is nothing noble about plain stupidity.”
He exposes his raised palms to me. “I get it. Your point has been made.”
I raise my chin. “Good.”
He watches me for a long moment, chuckling quietly, before walking a few paces over and grabbing his scabbard. Gray sheaths his sword and returns to me. “Come on,” he says with the jerk of his chin. “You can release some of that anger through training.”
We go through our usual warm-up, revisit correct form, then launch into a spar. And Gray was right, throwing my fists at him is making me feel better—even if he easily dodges all my punches .
He counters with his own attack, and I manage to dodge it. I want to strike back, so the moment my feet are set, I charge at him. But Gray easily catches my wrists with his hands and presses them to my sides.
He shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have attacked.”
“You’re wrong.”
Out of nowhere, surprising both Gray and me, Draven emerges through the trees.
My brows twitch with confusion. How long has he been watching us?
Gray releases my wrists. “Excuse me?”
Draven approaches, his strides long and steady. “I said you’re wrong. She shouldn’t always evade. She should fight back. Instead of telling her otherwise, you should be teaching her when to strike and showing her where an opponent’s points of weakness are.”
Gray nods. “When she’s ready, yes.”
Draven cocks his head and folds his arms across his broad chest. “And why do you presume she isn’t ready to learn something like that now? Did you not say you’re traveling to compete in Bathara’s entrance exams?”
Gray releases a breath, gathering his composure. “I did. But Lyra…” He pauses, clearly considering his words, not wanting to give too much away.
He doesn’t get the chance to finish.
“Lyra, what? Can’t perform the movements? Then she has no business competing. Or is it you who is going easy on her , too worried about preserving her instead of training her?”
Gray’s mouth tightens. Draven stands his ground, his arms still folded across his chest, his peculiar eyes locked on Gray. I flick my eyes between them, the tension so thick and wound taut, a small hangnail could cut it.
God’s veins…
“I’m showing her the better moves for both her stature and muscle build,” Gray presses, his voice clipped.
“I disagree.”
“Then I’m sorry, friend, but I believe it is you who is mistaken. ”
The corner of Draven’s lip kicks up, and I have never seen a smile look so terrifying. Draven drops his arms and takes one step forward. Then another. And another. Until he and Gray are a few inches away from each other. Neither of them balk. Neither of them relent.
Draven’s voice is a low, crackling melody. “First, and just so we’re clear, I am not your friend. Second, I’m not wrong. But if you are so deluded that you can’t see clearly, allow me to assist.” He draws back, unsheathing his sword.
My feet move before my mind.
Within an instant, I am standing between them—Gray unflinching, eyes locked on Draven, and Draven with his sword idly in his hand, a smirk twisting his lips. I outstretch my arms as if I could actually stop them.
“Stop it, the both of you.” My hands drop to my sides, and I glance between the two of them. “Really, this is childish and made of ego. It’s just training for the gods-sake.”
Draven snorts at me, and his features lock into something cold. “If you think that, then you are a fool and deserve to be trained as you currently are.” He takes a step toward me, and I have to fight the quiver threatening to buckle my knees. “Why do you train?”
I blink. “What?”
He takes another step, lowering his head to meet my eyes. “Why. Do. You. Train.” His lips are so close to me that, if he wanted to, he could easily bite clear through my lip. An animalistic action I wouldn’t entirely put past him given his sharp, savage expression at the moment.
I lift my chin. “Because I want to win.”
Draven’s gaze does not waver. “Win what, exactly?” His breath curls against my lips.
“I…well, my…”
My freedom. My life. This fucked up game that nobles have created of worth and measure.
But he doesn’t deserve to know anything about me. Plus, based on the way he is currently looking at me, I get the distinct feeling none of those answers would be enough for him anyways .
My chin falls with my eyes. “I don’t know,” I murmur.
“Then you are undeserving of the title Jurafen, and you have no place at Bathara.” He drops his voice, and he lowers his lips down toward my ear.
“Want to know what I train for? I train so no one in this world can best me. To make sure I remain the strongest. That way, I can defend whoever, whenever I need to, and no person can ever force me to my knees.”
He draws back, and my breathing hitches in my chest from the cold look passing through his seafoam eyes. A look so viscous is undeserving of eyes so beautiful.
Before I can even consider a reply, Gray is there, wedging himself between Draven and me, his arm extended into a straight line. “That’s enough,” he warns in a low growl.
A look of indifference lines Draven’s features once more. “I agree,” he murmurs through a lazy shrug. “I no longer see anything worth fighting over.”
The words strike me like a physical blow, and they seep beneath the layers of my skin, crawling up and up until they’re like weighted knots in my chest.
The sun has gone to sleep, and the fire replacing its faded light clings to its last, crackling ember.
Meiji and Griff retire to their tent for the evening, and Kiran strolls over to where Gray and I have our bedrolls laid out, bids us goodnight, and then disappears into his own tent.
I don’t know where Draven is. I hadn’t seen him while the tents were being erected, and only two are posted.
He’s probably sharing a tent with Kiran, but it's odd that I haven’t seen him since training.
Not that I’m in any hurry to see him again.
I no longer see anything worth fighting over.
I roll onto my back and lock my fingers behind my head, exhaling a breath. My eyes consume a star-embedded sky, and I savor the warmth the sight brings me. Unfortunately, however, it’s not enough to stave off the frigid chill lingering beneath my skin .
Why do you train?
Because I want to win.
I sigh, conceding to the irksome fact I will probably get little sleep tonight.
My fingers twitch, and the thought of reading Casimir’s journal flickers into my mind.
I sit up and scan my surroundings. Not surprisingly, Gray is sound asleep like always, and my ears don’t detect any noises coming from the two tents posted a few paces away.
But just as I reach over for my pack to grab the journal, someone calls out to me. “Ly-ra…Iza-calli…”
It is a chilling voice I do not recognize.
I squint, trying to make shapes out of formless shadows between the trees. Yet I see nothing.
The hissing voice calls for me again. “Lyra…Izacalli… Come. Come. ”
A foreign feeling washes over me, and before I fully realize what I’m doing, I’m standing upright, and my feet are guiding me into the shadows. Deeper and deeper into the line of trees I wander. It’s like I’m being drawn somewhere—tugged by some invisibleforce.
“Lyra,” the stranger hums.
I whip my head left, then right.
No one.
I steel my eroding nerves. “Who’s out there? How do you know my name?”
“Because Master told me your name.”
Fear pricks my skin like tiny needles, shooting down the nape of my neck, stretching all the way to my fingertips. “Who is your master? Is it the king? Has he sent you as another obstacle to indulge his petty game?” I halt in place, attempting to pinpoint where the voice is coming from.
A low chuckle rumbles from my left, and instinct has me pivoting my body, taking up my fighting stance.
“King, you say? A king, a king, a king.”The man’s gravelly voice shrills, his speech growing erratic.
“What is a king? A ruler? A title? A facade of power? Who is your king, Lyra Izacalli? Do you believe him to be the same as mine? If either is false, does that make the man any less a king?” The voice rounds the line of trees, now echoing from my right.
“What is a king? A king, a king, a king? ”
A branch cracks from behind me, and I whirl around.
Yet nothing is there. Nobody waits for me.
My breathing turns jagged, and I attempt to regulate the stuttering beats of my heart.
I straighten my back and lift my chin. “I serve no king.”
“Ah,” the stranger breathes with excitement. “An embodiment of ideals. To you, that is a king.” Dirt and grass crunch beneath a boot, and I am scanning the land around me with wild eyes.
Why can’t I see him?
A warning shoots down my spine and through my veins like a bolt of electricity.
But before I can act, a hand claps over my mouth, and I am yanked backwards, landing against a chest. The smell of burnt embers, laced with something else, stuffs into my nose, and a fragment of my heart splinters beneath the weight of its strange familiarity.
A putrid, sickly sweet smell.
Burning flesh.
For a moment, I am back. I have returned to the hill where my mother is drenched in oil and tied to a stake. Where flames lick the moisture from the air, regurgitating suffering and ash instead. I am small, tiny fists beating against a cold ground. I am devastation and agony. Brokenness and regret.
My fault.