Chapter Eleven
CASSIA
Three others stand in formation with me, the biting afternoon air slicing through my lungs with each breath.
My muscles scream from yesterday’s drills, a persistent agony that makes even standing still torture.
The training yard stretches before us, hard-packed dirt swept clean of debris, surrounded by metal hurdles and wooden training dummies that boggle my mind.
Why would I fight a piece of wood? That seems quite illogical.
Training with Kellen earlier was manageable—Brenner refused to look at me, which suited me perfectly. His averted gaze meant he wouldn’t notice the strain beneath my mask, wouldn’t notice how I favored my right side where Arayik’s combat drills had left a constellation of bruises.
But now, facing my last session with him today, cold dread pools in my stomach.
He stands at the opposite end of our semicircle, predatory energy radiating from his hulking frame.
His mask points directly at me, and through the narrow slit, those baleful eyes bore into my soul.
His stance is rigid. I know what he wants—to tell everyone how the freak Ashford manipulated his mind last night, how I used my power outside regulation to make him stumble away like a drunkard.
I catch his attention and give one shake of my head. The meaning is clear: keep quiet about what happened, or everyone learns what you and Corin do after dark. I’m not proud of this blackmail, but I won’t apologize for it.
Brenner’s mask tilts upward sharply before he turns away with a jerk, his massive shoulders bunching beneath his uniform. The air between us practically crackles with his hatred.
Every bone in my body is brittle, hollowed out by unprecedented exhaustion.
I haven’t slept properly since arriving, and last night’s power exertion left me far more drained than I could fathom.
Every step I’ve taken today has required conscious effort, my body moving through invisible sludge.
But I can’t show weakness—not with Brenner looking for any vulnerability, and not with Arayik’s scrutiny falling on my every move.
“Attention,” his voice cuts across the yard, and all four of us straighten. Calder and Finnick adjust their stances, feet planted wider, chins lifting.
“Commander.” The other three respond in unison. I hesitate a beat too long before joining in, earning a not-so-subtle glare from Arayik which somehow conveys his disapproval despite the mask.
“Today we assess combat capability,” he says, pacing before us.
His movements are fluid, economical—a predator conserving energy.
“You’ve demonstrated individual skills. Now I want to see how you function against an opponent.
The field demands adaptation, quick thinking, and the ability to exploit weakness. ”
His movements stop, mask pointing directly at me, and a chill traces my spine.
“You will pair up. First pair takes the mats.” He gestures to the center of the yard where black mats form a rough square. “Before you disperse, one of you tell me what the scan sequence is when traveling through a provincial checkpoint.” My heart skips—that’s the question he asked me last time.
“Sir,” Finnick begins, “The sequence begins with swiping one’s badge for identification. Then—” There’s more? “—confirming the manifest code given with travel orders.”
Oh. Oh, fuck me…Lachlan never mentioned that.
And Arayik didn’t ask the question for any reason other than satisfying his suspicion of me.
The world spins, heat flashing through me as my hands slicken. The mask is tighter than it was a second ago, the strap biting at my head as if in punishment. A faint whine grows in my ears, the same high note that emerges before a migraine.
Don’t react, Cas.
Lachlan would have known that—I should have known that.
Against my will, my eyes flick to the Commander, whose gaze is already trained on me. Whatever. That proves nothing; anyone could have answered the same as me, it doesn’t mean they’re a woman impersonating her brother to infiltrate this team of Enforcers…
Shit.
He surprisingly doesn’t call me out, instead returning to our training, leaving me to stress alone. “Pair up.”
Before I can even consider who might be least likely to break my neck, Brenner’s voice rings out. “I’m taking Ashford.”
Stars, why me?
My stomach drops. Of course I should have anticipated this. Last night’s confrontation was just the prelude—he’s been waiting for a sanctioned opportunity to hurt me.
“You heard him,” Arayik remarks, stepping back. “Brenner and Ashford, center mat.”
I have no choice now. Refusing would draw more attention than I can afford and would brand me forever as easy prey and get me kicked from the team. I need to think tactically, to use this somehow.
Perhaps this is an opportunity. If I handle Brenner properly, I might earn begrudging respect from the others. And there’s something to be said for confronting a threat directly rather than waiting for it to find you unaware.
My opponent stomps toward the mat, each footfall throwing up tiny puffs of dust. His movements are aggressive, radiating violent intent.
The afternoon sun catches on the metal parts of his uniform, sending brief flashes across the yard and the air feels charged, like the tense moments before a storm breaks from the sky.
Positioning myself on the mat, I stand slightly off-center opposite Brenner. I try to recall every self-defense technique I’ve read about and learned while here, but my mind blanks.
Yesterday, I watched him lift those forty-pound weights as if they were filled with air. His arms are twice the size of mine, his chest a barrel compared to my narrow frame. And now he wants revenge.
But there’s a reason he’s in this specific training with me. He’s too impulsive and aggressive; he leads with his emotions, not with his head, and his weakness is being quick to rage. If I can’t otherwise survive this without my powers, I can at least use that against him.
Worse still, what if my mask falls off during the fight? It’s secured, but a direct hit might dislodge it. The rules permit bare faces during accidental exposure in sparring, but I can’t let that happen.
The Commander approaches the edge of the mat. “Basic rules,” he says tersely. “No intentional deadly force or powers. First to three submissions or a knockout wins. Clear?”
Those are barely rules at all.
No intentional death leaves so much room for pain, or temporary injuries that could take weeks to heal.
“Begin.”
Everything happens too fast. I make the rookie mistake of standing with my feet together, a posture so unstable that when Brenner lunges forward, his fist connects with the side of my mask before I can even think to move.
The impact is explosive. My head snaps back, vision temporarily whiting out as I’m launched backward. I land hard, skidding across the mat, hard material pressing painfully into my face. If not for the protection of my mask, my cheekbone would be shattered.
Fuck me, that hurts. My ears ring as the aching in my jaw where the impact transferred through the mask crescendos. I almost laugh at the irony—the very thing concealing my identity just saved me.
Before I can fully recover, Brenner shouts a battle cry, and I watch as his boots approach rapidly.
He’s going to kick me while I’m down. Pure survival instinct rises as I forgo the effort to remember everything I’ve read about combat.
I roll sideways, enjoying the rush of air as his stomp misses my ribs by inches, slamming into the mat where I’d just been lying.
There’s no time for thought, only reaction. I grab his ankle with both hands and pull with everything I have, unbalancing him just as he’s shifting his weight for another kick. The unexpected counter drags him into an awkward split. He screams, clutching his groin.
This is my chance.
Scrambling to my feet, I retreat to the opposite side of the mat, putting maximum distance between us. My heart hammers as my breath comes in short, painful gasps.
I can’t breathe.
Brenner pushes himself up, his head snapping toward me with murderous intensity.
“You motherfucker,” he snarls, his voice thick and mucous-filled. “You’re going to pay for that.”
I’m already paying. My face throbs, tiny black dots still swirling at the edges of my peripheral. Both hands shake with adrenaline and fear. Is this a submission? No one has called anything, so the match must still be active.
He charges again, moving with surprising speed for someone so large. This time, I’m more prepared. I’ve watched enough of his movement to gather the pattern—right shoulder dropping before he strikes, weight shifting forward to his front foot, face tilted down as he focuses on his target.
It’s horrifying waiting until the last possible second, yet I do before sidestepping while extending my foot.
It’s not a perfect execution—the force of his momentum knocks into my leg, nearly taking me with him—but it works.
Brenner tumbles across the mat, his bulk working against him as he loses control and slides to a stop.
A small bubble of pride cheers inside me. I did that. Years of reading about physics and leverage, about utilizing an opponent’s force against them, and I actually executed it. Maybe I’m not entirely helpless after—
The thought dies as Brenner recovers faster than I anticipated. He rolls to his knees, then launches at me with a roar. Before I can react, his bulk slams into my torso, driving me to the ground with him on top. The air rushes from my lungs in a painful whoosh. He pins me, his weight crushing.
Now I really can’t breathe. Or move.
His bulk ensures I’m completely immobilized, my arms trapped at my sides as panic rises in my throat.
Then his leg shifts as he draws back for a kick aimed directly between mine. He’s going for what he thinks is my most vulnerable spot. Little does he know, I don’t have the same equipment he’s targeting.