11. Leah
Leah
Iscrape the tip of Swiftwing along the ground, readying myself to practice the movements I saw some cadets trying out on the fields after breakfast.
Filippa’s been avoiding me for the better part of three days now, and I don’t really blame her.
It’s not fair that she’s facing the biggest, most dangerous challenge of her life, only to be forced to babysit a clueless nephilim like me.
Worse, that her grandfather actually rates my chances of success over hers.
I know what it’s like to have your family disregard you. To treat you like a disappointment. I’m not going to make things worse by following her around reminding her of that fact.
Which is why I’m out here training on my own. Again.
I close my eyes, trying to feel the sword’s power—the magic Garion claims will guide me. Right now, I don’t feel a whole lot, but I push through, trying to repeat from memory the drills I saw this morning. I’ve never properly fought with a sword before, so I don’t have much to go on.
A prickle of sensation runs up the back of my neck, and I brace for Syrus’s arrival, swinging my blade around until my muscles scream.
I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’m trying to override the way my body too often responds to this moment, eagerly opening up for him, thrumming like a purring cat leaning into a gentle hand.
“Interesting,” Syrus murmurs into the shell of my ear. “I didn’t know interpretive dance was part of the ephilium’s curriculum.”
I lower my arms with a huff. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching you flail about with a sword, apparently.”
I give his presence a mental shove, but he holds on.
It wasn’t that hard of a push, but even if it were, I suspect it wouldn’t make much difference.
He has his hooks back in me now. I still have my walls, but they’re not hard for him to bypass.
All it took was letting him in once, and now they’ll never be the same.
Still, he must register them. He must know that I don’t want him there, and yet he pushes through anyway.
“It’s a standard drill,” I shoot back. “And I’m just wondering why you’re turning up now, after your multiple disappearing acts two days ago.”
“Did you miss me?” he asks, far too pleased as his voice caresses the inside of my mind.
I suppress a shiver, thrusting the sword out in front of me. “Like a migraine,” I reply. “What was all that about anyway? What freaked you out about the general and the sword?”
“When you learned this ‘standard drill,’ was it taking place in the air by any chance?” he asks, ignoring my question, which only aggravates me more. Of course he dodges any attempt to get him to display some honesty.
But while I’m annoyed at him changing the subject, the fact is that he’s right. I’m trying to replicate maneuvers I saw the cadets perform mid-flight—which might be the issue, given I’m very much grounded.
“I’ve never fought with a sword before,” I admit.
“Then let me show you,” he says, the sarcasm replaced by softness. I feel myself wanting to lean into it, to coax more words out of him, imagining the way his eyes would look if he were here, and how he’d smell as he leaned in—
No. I rip myself back to reality. “Just because I asked for your help in the arena doesn’t mean I was issuing a standing invitation, Syrus,” I snap, trying to make my mind as spiky and uncomfortable for him as possible.
“And frankly, I think it’s very shitty that you used me nearly being eaten by a wolf as an opportunity to fuck with my ability to block you out.
Whatever you did, whatever backdoor you left for yourself, I—”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says calmly. “If you can’t keep me out anymore, then that’s because a part of you wants me here.”
“That’s not true!” I reply, horrorstruck by the idea. Is it really my fault my walls aren’t working anymore?
“It is,” he says. “You keep letting me back in because you need me—”
“I don’t—”
“You know your chances of survival are much better with me here to help you.”
Oh. I straighten up. I doubt the other interpretation of his words has gone over his head—that I might need him, or at least want him in a much less practical, far more pathetic way. But mercifully he’s decided not to mention that.
“All right,” I sigh, because it’s better than facing up to the other option. “That might be true.”
“And I need you not to die,” he goes on. “Because the alternative…” His voice dips, getting lower and rougher. He slides deeper into my body, his presence coursing through my veins and pulsing like the thud of my own heartbeat, “…is unthinkable.”
I swallow, overwhelmed by the emotion in his voice as much as the sensation.
It doesn’t mean anything. Not when he couldn’t give me what I really wanted.
I have to say that to myself over and over again, like a chant, like a prayer. It’s the only way I’ll be able to breathe through this moment and enter the next with a clear head.
“So show me what I should be doing,” I say, lifting my sword.
If I feel a hint of disappointment from him, I don’t acknowledge it, and he readily launches into a tutorial.
Even though the weapon is new to me, the lesson itself feels very familiar.
I fall back into the easy pattern of matching my movements to his instructions.
Except now when I misunderstand or get something wrong, his presence is there in my body, pulling my leg into place or adjusting my arms.
If I don’t think too hard, it’s like he’s right there behind me, just out of my eyeline—my body against his as he guides me through the steps. It’s sweet relief and torture all at once, having him so close, and I put everything I have into focusing on what he’s telling me.
“You need to pull your hips back, or your weight will be off center,” he says, his voice stroking the inside of my mind as his touch feathers against my side.
It’s too much, my blood beginning to heat, and at last I break, dropping the tip of my sword and moving back as if I can step away from him.
Except of course I can’t. There’s no getting distance from him like this, not unless he cooperates.
“I think that’s enough for now,” I say, exhaling. “I’d like you to go.”
Of course, it’s never that easy with him. “I thought we agreed you need my help. You can’t keep fighting me, Leah, not when your life might depend on us working together.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient?” I snap back, pacing back and forth across the same patch of grass.
I’m so sick of him not listening to what I want.
“You know, if you hadn’t tried to suppress my power, I could’ve been developing it this whole time.
I’d be stronger and better prepared for all this shit.
And then I wouldn’t even need your help. ”
“If things hadn’t played out as they did, you wouldn’t be in Aradis at all,” he responds smoothly.
Ah. So he does understand why I left. It stings more, I think, than assuming he’s completely clueless.
“Played out, huh?” I say, not missing his choice of wording. “You still can’t own up to it, can you?”
“And what would that be, vulture?” he says, letting the last word bite a little.
“That this is your fault. This whole fucking mess. Me being here. Us—” I make a noise, cutting myself off. It’s too raw, spelling it out for him when I so desperately want him to just get it on his own—why what he did made it impossible for me to stay. Why it hurt so much. Why it still hurts.
“That’s very neat, Leah,” he says coolly. “But I had to work with circumstances beyond my control. So when it comes to fault—”
“Hey! Want a partner?”
I whip around to see Rowan jogging up, my anger cooling quickly into the nerves I always feel when I’m caught roaming around with Syrus in my head.
“Oh no,” Syrus groans at the sight of him. “It’s soldier boy.”
I ignore him, biting my lip as I wonder how to answer Rowan. “Um…”
The real answer is no, I don’t want a partner right now. Right now, I want to push Syrus on these so-called “circumstances” he mentioned, to find out exactly how he justifies trying to control me and lying about it.
But Rowan is grinning at me in that easy, friendly way that makes rejecting him feel on par with kicking a puppy.
Okay, maybe not kicking a puppy, so much as a sleek, fully grown, pedigreed hunting hound. But I’d still feel like a bully.
“Come on,” Rowan says. “I bet you could use the company. I heard you had a fight with Filippa, and to be honest, you looked like you were having an argument with yourself just now.”
“You had an argument with your cousin?” Syrus asks.
That’s exactly why I should say yes to Rowan—a nice, uncomplicated guy who thinks to check in on me just because he heard I might be having a hard time.
He’s a world away from the demon lord I’m tangled up with in so many ways.
A demon who might’ve known about Filippa and me if he’d thought to ask how I’m doing, rather than use every conversation as an attempt to gain ground with me, to wrestle back a few inches of power and control.
That’s the kind of attitude that got us into this mess.
“I’d love a partner,” I say, giving Rowan a bright smile, which he returns, encouraged.
Syrus doesn’t say anything. It seems he’s starting to realize that talking when I’m with other people puts me at risk. But he does make his disapproval known in the way his presence moves inside my mind, scraping its claws and flicking its tail in warning.
I lift Swiftwing, showing it to Rowan. “My grandfather gave me this sword. It’s supposed to help me channel my foresight.”
Rowan’s eyes widen, a flash of envy passing through them. “Wow. You have a divining blade? They’re so rare these days. Though I suppose it makes sense the Illidores would have one. Your bloodline is so old.”
I already felt guilty about being given the sword, and his reaction doesn’t help.
I haven’t earned this powerful, important thing.
I don’t even really understand its worth.
But I resolve then, in that moment, to live up to the expectation that comes with it.
Garion gifted it to me for a reason. He thinks it will help Aphelion and the people suffering there.
I owe it to them to make good use of it.
“Do you know how it works?” I ask Rowan. “I can’t feel anything when I’m using it.”
“Well, they say the blade’s effectiveness varies depending on your natural skill with second sight.”
That’s worrying. Garion seemed convinced the sword would work for me, but what if it doesn’t? What if my ephilium blood is too diluted for that?
“But no matter how skilled you are,” Rowan continues, “you need an opponent. Otherwise, there’s nothing for it to predict, except your own movements.”
It’s a little embarrassing to put my mediocre sword fighting skills on display in front of Rowan, but he takes it easy on me.
Plus, Syrus’s advice is fresh in my mind.
When I use something he taught me just ten minutes ago, I feel a little wave of approval peek out beneath the demon lord’s silent irritation.
It also helps that Rowan is right. A minute or two into sparring with him, I start to feel Swiftwing responding to me.
It materializes as a little tug in the right direction every now and again—subtle enough that you could mistake it for instinct in the moment—giving me some notion of where my opponent will strike next and pushing me to block it.
It guides me into better positioning, helping me figure out how to angle my body, how to take a blow.
It turns out that my knife fighting skills can help here too.
Which all combined mean I might not be any match for Rowan if he was really putting his back into it, but I’m not a total disaster either.
“Wait, can you show me that again?” I say, stopping Rowan mid-spar. “That was some fancy footwork.”
He grins, flattered, and repeats the move. When I don’t quite get it the first time, he crouches by my feet and guides my legs into place.
This is a step too far for Syrus, his hackles rising.
“You’re doing this just to spite me, aren’t you?” he snaps, practically bouncing off the walls of my mind.
“Not everything is about you,” I shoot back, but I don’t encourage Rowan to touch me again. Not that I need Syrus’s permission—it just doesn’t feel right. Not with him there.
As we continue to spar, Syrus slips out of my mind, apparently deciding he doesn’t want to watch this.
Rowan and I practice until my muscles ache and my shoulders feel like they’re on fire. When I go to bed that evening, it takes me a while to fall asleep I’m so sore. Eventually I do, only to dream of Syrus and wake abruptly in the night.
But he’s not there with me—hasn’t snuck into my mind. I’m alone. I’m doing this to myself.
I meant what I said about not everything being about him though. Sometimes it’s about power. Sometimes it’s about freedom. And sometimes, okay, they’re both about being able to separate myself out from the man who haunts my dreams when I’m asleep and stalks my mind when I’m awake.
Except the next morning when I wake up, I find a very different kind of companion that shouldn’t be there. Two of them, in fact: a pair of hard, tender ridges, right between my shoulder blades.