Chapter 8 Training
Training
I wonder what the full extent of druid might is, with their arcane magic.
Is it something our scientists can ever replicate?
Or do they stand shoulder to shoulder with the gods?
I can only foresee one way of stopping them permanently.
We must match their magic with that of our own. By whatever means necessary.
—Personal diary of uprising leader Kieran Ceres
DAYS LATER, I stand across from Amaya in the sparring ring, still curious about what she almost let slip.
The focus in these first weeks of brawling seems to lie solely on training our new bodies to withstand physical combat.
Though none of the druids have been exactly accommodating to us changelings, at least Amaya hasn’t tried to kill or pin me to the mat in an embarrassingly fast way, like Mira.
It’s more than I can say for Ember, who is currently being looked over by an Empress Arcana, healing a collar bone a druid has broken.
Over the last few days, I’ve had both my femur and elbow snapped, the first courtesy of Mira, the second a freak accident when facing Felix, who hasn’t stopped apologizing since.
Thank the gods for healers.
Although I was trained in fighting by the Blades of Westfall and know most of the introductory material, my new body is stronger and faster than my mortal form and I feel as if my muscles have forgotten their former skill.
Amaya swings at me, and I dart my head to the side, dodging her blow.
Watching over us is a third-year student with a Strength Arcana that allows him to channel precisely that.
His body is muscled in a way anyone would envy, his skin flawlessly toned mahogany, and he’s one of few druids at the Forge with wings.
When he thwaps the back of my knee with a staff, I adjust, stalking farther into the ring.
“Watch your footwork,” he barks. “You nearly stepped out of the circle.”
“Yes, because I’ll be seeking thinly drawn circles for all the fights I plan to get into—” A cracking pain hits the back of my head before I can finish.
“Environment is as much an obstacle as your enemy. Use it to your advantage, or be humbled by it.” He leans on the staff now.
His hazel eyes flick to something behind me, and I duck, turning and smashing my fist into Amaya’s ribs.
She stumbles back, cupping her left side, hunched over, teeth grit in pain.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry.” I grimace, taking a tentative step closer.
Amaya slinks into a spinning kick, sweeping my feet from under me. I collapse to the mat, my body marred in stinging pain. I’m still wrapping my aching head around the maneuver as she helps me up. She smiles and teases, “I’m surprised you fell for that one.”
“You sold it well.”
“Maybe you’re just gullible?” She bumps me with her shoulder.
A minor weight releases from my chest, as if I’ve had a belt cinched around my ribs, and a grin curls my expression before I can stop it.
She points to my lips, her amusement growing like a shadow spreading across the earth. “Ahhhh, so she can smile.”
My gut churns as if I’ve been caught doing something cruel, and it drops from my face.
When was the last time I allowed for that?
Something as small as a smile shared with a friend.
Kiana. But she was more than just that. My gaze for some reason snaps to Draven across the room, currently using his forearm to choke a third-year student into submission.
His eyes flash to mine, both of us appraising the other—
“Attention! Seraphs on the premises.” Commander Soto walks into the room, and a moment later, seraph guards stalk in.
I remember the seraphs from my father’s Selection, their unmatched beauty, purple robes, silver armor, and most of all, their wings, ranging from snowy whites to tawny tans to rich earth browns.
Some guards even boast colors that remind me of the tropical birds from the Isle of Riches, with vibrant blues and greens.
All of their wings are feathered, unlike the druids’, where such wings are a rarity.
One, with wings like winter, pure as snow but lined with gold, wears a crown woven in her platinum locks.
This seraph princess marches straight for Draven.
Her expression is cold, her large and achingly blue eyes holding only scorn as she sweeps the room.
But when she reaches Draven, they shimmer with emotion.
The grit of his teeth and the haste in which he pulls on his shirt tells me he’s not happy to see her. Is a seraph visit a regular occurrence? From the held breaths around the room and the tension stiffening my instructors’ spines, I’m guessing not.
But soon I cannot focus on the princess and her crown of starlight, nor Draven and the taut lines of his shoulders, because trailing behind her is someone I never thought I’d see again.
My father.
My mother and I were always closely knit, like patches of a quilt—sometimes clashing but sharing the weight of the same hardships.
But my father and I were cut from the same cloth.
I’d never felt more understood than when sitting beside him in silence, or when feeling the warmth of his hand on my shoulder.
He was the one who taught me to hold my head high, to treat any obstacle as if it were no more than an anthill, even if it was a mountain.
Before I know it, I’m running to him.
“Rune?” Ember calls, but I ignore her, parting through the sea of onlookers.
Their suspicion keeps them rooted in place, and I move around them like a river over rocks.
I can’t take in whatever sniping words Draven has for the seraph princess, nor the stony propriety of her too-perfect posture.
When I reach the front of the crowd I stop, boots squeaking on the tiles.
My father doesn’t look a day older than when he left, but there are other changes that nearly make him unrecognizable.
Mainly the wings across his back, both large and downy and perfectly golden.
His skin is the same oak, darker than my bronze, while his eyes are radiant gold like mine, more so now that he’s been transformed.
His hair is shorn and black, his beard well-groomed, cleaner than any day I spent at his side.
“Dad?” I can barely breathe the words, and his attention snaps to me, eyes blinking in confusion, then panic, aghast as he looks me over.
There’s a slight upturn in his ears, a smoothness to his features where they were once rough-hewn.
But he’s not chained or shackled, and I can’t stop staring at the wings.
Accusations rise in the back of my throat.
His hands tremble, and my eyes water at the sight of him.
What has stopped him from returning to us?
He was likely sworn to fealty. Same as me.
I bury the pain of why and rush into his arms. He holds me tightly and all at once I’m small again.
The years of suffering, of breaking myself over and over to survive this world shed from me like a snake from its skin.
His arms are a shield that both protects and disarms, scented with his familiar aroma of vanilla mixed with petrichor, as if he flew through the rain to get here.
“Captain Riordan? Who is this?”
The imposing tone of the seraph princess has me straightening, and I take a step back from my father, suddenly remembering myself. Draven watches my every movement closely, his cunning eyes tracing the echoes of my father’s features in my own. But the princess wears a frown, brows drawn together.
“My apologies, Princess Reva. This is my daughter, Rune.” He introduces me with all the pride in the world, his voice quavering with emotion, chin up as he looks to her.
A captain? The other guards watch him warily, but they don’t bark orders at him.
My father clears his throat. “I know you are here to discuss your betrothal”—Draven and I lock eyes and I’ve never seen him so cagey, hands flexing at his sides, leg bouncing.
I look at Reva. She’s beautiful, yet the ice in those eyes looks unlikely to thaw—“but would you allow me a moment with my daughter? I haven’t seen her since she was thirteen. ”
Reva looks me up and down, scrutinizing every sweaty inch of me.
“I need you at my side. But she can stay.” Reva turns to Draven, his eyes darker than the bottom of the sea on a moonless night. “I’m growing tired of these games. Your schooling hardly matters when you are to be ruling at my side. Your delays grow boring.”
“This forced betrothal more so.” Draven pulls out a small tin, taking out wrapped paper that he puts between his lips and lights, a flame flashing in his palm.
It doesn’t smell like tobacco; it’s sweet, intoxicating.
I wonder what it tastes like as he breathes in deeply, smoke pluming like some great dragon.
“I am not content to sit docile at anyone’s side, nor to leave my great country for one as morally constrictive as your own. ”
The other changelings and druids watch on, rapt, pulled into the drama of it. Instructors shoo their attentions away, ordering more drills, but I catch many watching over their shoulders. Draven’s guards form a wall of bodies around us, separating us from others’ curious stares.
“It doesn’t matter what you desire. Our fathers set this into play years ago, or have you forgotten your oaths?” Reva’s brow rises severely, her lips full but pursed tighter than a coin bag. There is no humor on her face, just cold, rule-abiding pitilessness.