16. Callan #2
“No,” Lucina rasps, “had more of it.” It’s not at all what I expected her to say, and I think she notices the confusion on my face because then she says, “We’d race trains growing up, and it was always more fun with a buzz.”
That explains the endurance…I guess… but how often was she racing these trains? “Sounds… riveting,” I reply, picking up the pace a little more as we near the path that will take us further south.
She matches me with ease, and I trail the flush that makes its way across her cheeks and down her chest—
“Watch out!” she screams, and I nearly trip, stumbling out of the way of—
Nothing. There’s literally nothing there.
“Watch out for what?!” I shout back, catching up to her in half a step.
“You wouldn’t know, would you?” she says breathlessly, a knowing tilt to her lips. “Too busy staring at my boobs.”
“That’s not what I was doing.” I pick up our pace out of spite, and Lucina’s breathing turns more ragged.
“Hope not, that would be hypocritical considering you gave Pax a black eye for far less—”
“No more talking.”
I push us to a full sprint when I see the amber lights of the Yard shining just through the trees, and only then does she struggle to keep up. I take her to the training ring and wait for her to stop heaving.
She’s bent slightly at the waist, both hands on her hips, forcing air in as slowly as she’s able. “How’s the wine now?” I ask, and she scowls. “Right, well,” I gesture my arms wide, “Welcome to the Yard.”
She arches a dark brow, glancing skeptically across the space. “The Yard?”
“The Yard,” I confirm, then spin to give her a tour.
“This is the training ring.” I sweep a hand across the fenced-in dirt pit we’re standing in, then make my way towards the back of the three-wall building, gesturing to the left-hand side.
“Water cooler, bathroom—chairs that Pax never put away.” I move on, flicking my chin to the right. “Old worn-out gym equipment—”
Lucina snorts.
“More. Fucking. Chairs.”
“Maybe you forgot to ask him,” she says boldly.
I ignore the comment, gesturing to the door along the back wall.
“And over here is the weapons closet.” I press my palm into the center of it as we approach, the familiar twinge of warmth running across my palm as the lock clicks.
The door slides away to reveal a room about the size of her cabin, filled with every kind of weapon you could dream of.
Lucina hesitates over the threshold, and the sharp inhale of her breath makes me smile.
Hundreds of knives hang to our right and along the back wall. On the left-hand side is a metal rack with Easton’s crossbow up top, a few silver longbows hanging beneath it, and at least a dozen quivers of silver-tipped arrows.
My gaze sweeps across the room, ultimately falling on Lucina, whose brows are raised in silent alarm.
“It’s this or flowers,” I tell her, moving to stand in front of the knives.
She takes a hesitant step towards the center of the space, her stare sweeping over all the gleaming metal. “I highly doubt those are my only options.”
I gather six throwing knives, and I swear she stops breathing. “They are.”
At first, she refuses, standing her ground just outside of the training ring while I flip the knives over in my hand. But once I reassure her that we can stop whenever she wants, she reluctantly joins me in the center.
“Control, timing, and focus,” I begin, and her eyes are big when they meet mine. “You need all three before we can move on to anything else.” I increase the distance between us, then hold out one of the small, iron-hilted daggers. “Take this from me using magic only.”
She shifts her weight, her skin still flush from the run here. “What exactly are you training me for, Captain—”
“Stop talking.” Her mouth snaps shut, and I nudge the dagger upwards, drawing her attention back to it. “Take it from me.”
I brace myself when her magic barrels through the training ring. The air around us spins; heat and wind and pressure so high my head throbs under the weight of it all. She allows more and more of it to slip free—
“Control, Lucina,” I bite out, planting my feet in the dirt. “You don’t need that much.”
The pommel of the dagger twitches in response, tendrils of that power latching onto it as her eyes go watery and her hands flex at her sides.
Her magic has its own thoughts and impulses, but they need to become her thoughts and her impulses.
She needs to know her magic; the same way her magic knows her—fully and irrevocably.
The dagger is ripped from my hand and yanked through the air, then the heavy wind and high pressure recede the moment her fingers grasp the hilt.
Damn. I was banking on this keeping us occupied most of the time.
Lucina lets free a staggering breath, then a dangerous smile spreads across her face as she flips the dagger over in her palm. She wasn’t expecting that either.
“Can I trust you with sharp things?” I ask, and her answering smirk tells me all I need to know. I snatch it back, catching the hilt in my awaiting hand. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“That isn’t a normal dagger,” she says, wiping sweat off her forehead, curled pieces of her hair catching on the back of her hand. “The weight of it is wrong.”
I blink back at her, a bit shocked and slightly impressed.
“It’s not wrong, it’s mine. They’ve been tailored for me and my strength specifically.
” My thumb grazes the details on the ivory pommel.
“Were you throwing daggers while you raced trains or something?” I ask, holding out the knife again.
I want the act of her taking it to be as quick as an inhale.
“No,” Lucina scoffs, as if it were a stupid question, then her magic rolls across the training ring again. “What purpose would that have served?”
I shrug as the dagger begins to quiver. “Slowing down whoever you’re racing?”
She yanks hard on her magic, and the dagger zips through the air. She reaches for it, but her fingers slip past the handle, and it clatters to the ground at her feet. “No. I didn’t keep knives to win races,” she says, bending down to pick it up, but I snatch it back before she can grab it.
She prepares herself to start again, confusion flashing across her face when I don’t hold a knife out for her—I’m too focused on what she just said. “Then what did you keep them for?”
At first, she looks anywhere but at me; the dirt, the dagger, the fence surrounding the training ring. Then her hands find her hips, and her soft eyes find mine. “Protection,” she says plainly, and it’s the last thing I expected to hear.
A few beats of silence pass.
“From who?” I ask, but my question is cut off when the pressure rises, and I close my fist around the dagger half a second before she can take it.
Her magic whips out carelessly around us, hissing past my ears like venomous snakes.
“That was sloppy,” I tsk, flicking my chin to the dirt at her feet. “Twenty pushups.”
She scoffs when she realizes I’m serious. “Fuck no.”
“Twenty-five,” I counter, gently wiping the dirt off the blade.
“For what!?”
“Ten for being sloppy, ten for dropping the dagger, and five for cursing.”
She wants to protest, I can see the fight churning in her eyes, but to my surprise, she doesn’t. She drops to the ground and powers through each push-up, letting her anger…fuel her.
Interesting.
By the time she stands, her face has turned a lovely shade of crimson. If she doesn’t hate me already, she certainly will after tonight.
We spend an hour on control—her magic sharpening, and she’s actually starting to get the hang of it. Her arms shake each time she catches the dagger, and she looks ready to slit my throat, but for a guy without a plan, I’d say whatever I’m doing is working.
I’ve decided that Lucina needs something to light a fire in her. She’s fueled by fear and anger. No wonder she killed all those flowers; she needs something that makes her heart pound. Something that pushes her to the edge and leaves her with no other option but to fight.
“How does it feel?” I ask, as she finishes what was probably her hundredth push-up.
“Feels like you want me dead.” Lucina spits in the dirt, then wipes her face in the next heartbeat, pinning me with a stare that promises death, at the very least, injury. “Which is ironic considering you have direct orders to prevent that.”
I try not to smile. “I was talking about your magic, sweetheart. How does your magic feel?”
Those stubborn eyes narrow. “Ravenous,” she enunciates the word slowly, then adds with an ingenuous smile, “sweetheart.”
I don’t let it rile me, even though I know that was her intention.
Ravenous, she said… If it weren’t for her heritage, I’d think she was lying, but I wouldn’t be surprised if her reserves ran leagues deeper than my own. If I properly pace myself, I can maintain magic for days without sunlight before I’m pushing my limits. But if Lucina is still ravenous?
Gods, help us all.
“Your control is good, not perfect, but good.” I flip the dagger in my hand. “How good are your reflexes?”
“Why?” she scoffs, rolling out her wrists. “Gonna throw the daggers at me now—"
I pinch the tip of the blade and hurl it in her direction before she can finish speaking, and she throws herself to the side just in time. The dagger skids across the dirt, and she looks up at me wide-eyed.
“Pretty good,” I answer my own question, and palm another dagger.
“Have you lost your mind!?” she snaps, pulling herself to stand.
“Not yet.” I tilt the dagger to her, then line it up to throw. “Timing is a variation of control,” I tell her. “Jumping out of the way only works when there is space and time for you to do so.”
Lucina looks at me as if I have three heads and a death wish.
“I want you to pretend you don’t have either.”
Her brows furrow. “Soo… you want me to…”
“Stop the blade before it slices that pretty face of yours.” I hurl another dagger, and she dodges it, her feet kicking up dirt as she falls. “You’re scared.”