CHAPTER 15 #2
Mazelle pivots, and the world tilts. I hit the sand hard enough to drive the air from my lungs. For several profoundly humiliating seconds, I lie there staring up at the gray sky. The sky, much like the ceiling yesterday, is deeply unsympathetic.
A few soldiers make the mistake of chuckling and Mazelle's head turns just enough for them to catch the warning in her eyes. The laughter dies instantly.
She looks down at me. “Stand.”
I drag air into my lungs. “Lovely first lesson.”
“Did you not hear me—”
I cut her off before she can finish that sentence. “I heard you the first time.” I remain flat on my back. “I was giving the ground a moment to appreciate my presence. It seems we're going to become well acquainted.”
“Lady Tarethyn, now.” Her voice leaves no room for argument.
I push myself upright, pride stinging more than my back, though my back has a strong opinion as well. Sand clings to my tunic and hair. Great. I’ve been in the training yard for less than five minutes and already resemble something dragged from a ditch.
Mazelle waits until I am on my feet before circling me slowly. “You have good instincts,” she says.
I gasp dramatically. “Was that a compliment?”
“No.”
“Tragic.” I spit onto the sand, wiping the sweat from my brow.
“You move like someone who has fought to escape, not someone trained to win.”
I force a smile, gritting my teeth so hard they might crack. “Escaping has kept me alive so far.”
“Barely. It will not keep you alive forever.”
I want to snap back. I want to tell her that barely alive is STILL alive.
That not all of us grew up with palace courtyards, guards, and instructors waiting to teach us how to fight.
I want to scream that some of us learned survival in alleys, forests, and forgotten villages, where every sideways glance felt like the beginning of a noose tightening around our necks.
I want to tell her that surviving as the only girl with bronze skin and silver hair in a village that feared anything different meant learning to stay quiet, keep my head down, and never draw attention to myself.
That was survival. The words rise to my tongue…
and die there. Because something in her expression tells me she already knows. Or worse—understands.
“Again,” she says, but this time the words are a little less sharp.
Of course. Let’s fucking go.
The next hour becomes a blur of sand, bruises, and Mazelle’s infuriatingly calm voice.
She teaches me to shift my weight, keep my knees loose, and turn a grabbed wrist into motion before an opponent can react.
She uses my smaller frame against larger opponents, making me repeat the same movements until my arms tremble and my lungs burn.
Every time I think I've finally figured it out, she changes the angle and sends me sprawling into the sand again.
I hit the ground seven times. Not that I’m counting.
…I’m absolutely counting.
On the eighth, I manage to twist free before she can throw me. The movement is ugly, desperate, and probably not at all what she intended, but I stay on my feet.
Mazelle’s eyes narrow and I grin, panting. “Was that acceptable?”
“It was extremely messy.”
“But acceptable?”
“Barely.”
"I'll take barely. Barely means I’m efficient," I pant, pushing sweat-damp curls out of my face.
They’ve grown several inches since I arrived at the palace, and after the last hour of being thrown into the sand, they're determined to blind me.
Muttering a curse beneath my breath, I yank one of the laces from my tunic free and gather the silver strands into a proper ponytail.
As I tighten the knot, a familiar chill skates down my spine.
I glance toward the stone walkway above the training yard and freeze.
Thorin stands with all the grace of a marble statue, eyes fixed on me. And he probably watched as I got my ass handed to me for several minutes. I refuse to be humiliated, so I lift my chin and glare at him. Maybe if I look annoyed enough, he'll vanish.
He stands alone against the black stone, one hand resting lightly on the railing as the wind stirs the dark fabric draped over his shoulders.
Our eyes meet, and a searing pain blooms across my wrist. I hiss under my breath, rubbing the spot.
Training must’ve done more damage than I realized.
His eyes flash silver for the briefest moment before fading back to gray.
The sounds of the training yard fade into the background until all I can hear is my own heartbeat.
His expression is impossible to read from this distance, but there is an intensity in his gaze that roots me to the spot.
The air feels charged, every breath humming beneath my skin. All I can focus on are his eyes.
Thorin's gaze moves over me, taking in what I imagine is a truly impressive combination of sweat, dirt, and whatever dignity Mazelle hasn't already beaten out of me. I expect the familiar smirk.
Instead, he smiles.
Not the arrogant curve of his mouth I've grown used to. A real smile, slow, warm, and so unexpected that for a moment, I forget where I am.
Gods. It's beautiful.
Tightness pulls at my chest. I haven't seen him in days, and seeing him now brings a feeling I don't care to examine too closely. I don’t know how I let myself forget how damned handsome he is, but this is different.
I've never seen him look like this. Never seen the severity leave his face completely, or the king disappear long enough for me to glimpse the man beneath the title.
And he's smiling at me.
I stare back, transfixed, and after a moment, his smile widens as if he knows exactly what it's doing to me.
Suddenly, a hand hooks around the back of my neck and the world flips. My feet leave the ground before I even realize what’s happening. Sand rushes toward my face, and I hit the training yard hard enough that the impact rattles my teeth. Dizziness crashes over me.
“Eyes on your opponent, Lyra.”
I blink up at Mazelle through watering eyes.
Lyra.
Not Lady Tarethyn.
I push myself onto my elbows and immediately look back to the walkway, but Thorin is gone.
At that moment, pain chooses to bloom along my hip, hot and immediate.
I curl onto my side and press a hand to the sand, biting back several words that would probably get me assigned to some worse form of training.
Something involving cliffs. Or fire. Or Mazelle before breakfast.
A shadow falls across me and I expect Mazelle. Instead, I see black boots. Riven lets out a quiet laugh beneath his breath. Beside him, Onyx's mouth twitches, betraying the ghost of a smile.
Mazelle's gaze sweeps over the three of us, unimpressed.
“You.” She points at Riven. “Why are you laughing?”
Riven points at himself, eyebrows lifting. “Me?”
“Yes, you.”
He straightens immediately. “I wasn’t—”