Chapter 17
The afternoon sun casts Draven’s formidable form in a bright silhouette as he leans over me, strong lips twisted in an aggressive scowl. “Get up.”
I groan and roll to my side, placing my palm against the trampled grass and pushing myself up on trembling arms.
“You can do this, Elara!” Ferria calls from the side of the makeshift sparring area in the clearing.
My body sways when I get to my feet.
“I need a break,” I wheeze.
I prop the thin, but durable, practice sword Jaxon presented me two days ago on the ground, leaning on the pommel for support. He said he’d carved it from a tree trunk in a single night, but you’d never know it. Its smooth surface rivals the finest works of art from Verdanthia’s best carpenters.
“A break? We’ve barely started.” Draven spins the long staff in his hands.
The flecks of silver embedded in the material gleam in the sunlight.
I straighten and wipe the sweat from my brow. “I need to check on Darius.”
There. A flash of emotion betrays Draven’s cruel persona.
Each of the Fae has shown Darius matters to them—that his plight affects them greatly. Draven’s version of caring just makes him an asshole.
The Fae jerks his head, and indifference overshadows his emotion once more. “One more round. Block my strikes.”
Before I can protest, he darts forward. My aching arms barely lift the sword in time.
Crack.
The staff strikes the wood right at shoulder height. I bite back a cry when my still-healing, dislocated shoulder grinds in its socket. Thank the Gods for my healing magic, mending the damaged tissue just enough to endure this.
Not that my trainer knows about my magical advantage. Is it ignorance of human physical limitations that allows him to be so relentless? Or does he just not care if I get hurt again?
Draven presses his weight into the staff. “Toss me off.”
I grit my teeth and shove. It’s weak. I know it. But Draven backs away anyway. He begins to pace in a wide circle. I rotate to keep him in my sight.
He moves again. This time, he goes for my legs. I swing the sword down. Wood meets wood, but the momentum carries his strike to my calf.
I hiss and leap away, limping when I try to put weight on the stinging muscle. “Hey! That hurt.”
He resumes stalking me in a slow circle. “That’s the point.”
“What exactly are you trying to train me for anyway?” I pant out, glaring through heavy eyes. “Not even those monsters move as fast as you.”
And both Draven and I know there’s no hope for me if I’m ever forced to fight a Fae.
He snorts. “Trust me, those cursed beasts can move much faster than they did when attacking you. The sick bastards simply enjoy playing with their food.”
My stomach plummets, the cold weight of fear sinking deep. I grit my teeth and shove the debilitating emotion aside. With trembling arms, I lift the wooden sword in a grip slick with sweat.
For the briefest instant, something like respect flickers in Draven’s gaze. Then he spins his staff in a blur, launches into the air, and brings it crashing down with brutal precision.
My arms reverberate from the impact. I dig my heels into the ground. Despite my best efforts, I’m no match for the Fae’s strength. Strength, I suspect, he’s not wielding to its full extent.
“Don’t worry, Elara,” Jaxon calls from where he stands next to Ferria, watching my pathetic attempt to spar with an encouraging grin. “Draven is going easy on you. You’ll still be able to dance with your mate at the celebrations in three days' time.”
I swing my glare to the placating Fae. Ferria swats Jaxon with the back of her hand.
He clutches his arm. “Ow! What was that for?”
“Stop taunting my sister.”
“I wasn’t! I simply said she’ll still be able to enjoy her ma—”
The air crackles with the promise of a storm despite the clear blue sky. Gooseflesh prickles my arms.
Jaxon smirks up then glances over his shoulder.
Ferria swings again, but he leaps out of reach just before she makes contact. “He’s not her mate, you idiot.”
Jaxon just laughs at the insult.
It’s only been two days since Ferria and I were attacked outside the forge—two days of my sister interacting with the Fae, but she's already devolved into exchanging casual barbs and banter. As usual, everyone enjoys her company. And she’s better than me at fighting.
Of course.
A breeze blows through the clearing, carrying away the static air.
“Focus,” Draven barks.
He’s still several feet from me. He could’ve advanced while I was distracted but didn’t.
Jaxon’s right. He’s going easy on me. I knew it. Still, the admission is more disheartening than anything.
The scabs on my face tug when I frown. I raise my weapon.
Approval crosses his gaze right before he swings.
I duck and block a strike to my head, then yelp and barely recover in time to block one aimed at my gut. I shove the sword against the staff and fall back.
Draven remains where he is. “Good.”
I raise my brows at the compliment.
“Thank y— AH!”
Draven swings the staff low. A bolt of pain emanates from my ankles, and my feet sweep out from under me.
The blue sky fills my vision. My back slams into the earth, knocking the air out of my lungs.
“What the hells!?” Ferria shouts.
Sounds of shoving and grunts reach my ears.
Then wild red strands dangle in my face before Ferria tilts her head back and snarls at Draven, “What the fuck was that for?”
”This is training,” Draven clips out. “Elara should always be on her guard.”
I gasp for breath, my lungs slow to expand.
“Please,” Ferria hisses, venom lacing her words. “This isn’t training. You just enjoy beating those weaker than you.”
A pulse of darkness shudders around me, sharp and cold. It fades just as quickly, leaving an echo in its wake.
What in the hells is that?
Draven exhales a harsh, dismissive sound. “If that is truly your belief, then I will excuse myself.”
Draven stomps off into the camp of soldiers, who haven’t so much as said hello to me or my sister since their companions started training us. Neither has Rian. Not that I’m eager to speak with the unsettling Fae.
“Gods.” Ferria snorts. “That one is sensitive.”
My attention shifts back to my sister.
Concerned eyes flit over my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I clench my abs and try to sit up.
“Whoa, easy.” She slips an arm under my back to help hold my weight.
I lean against her for support and pant, “You’re…mean.”
“Me?” Her pitch rises. “No. He’s mean. He didn’t need to take your legs out from under you. He’s just like every man in Verdanthia who thinks he can use his superior strength against women just because we’re weaker. To make themselves feel powerful.”
“Excuse me?” Jaxon’s voice drops. “What did you just say?”
Ferria doesn’t flinch at the threat in his tone. “Draven. He’s a jerk who likes to knock down those weaker than him.”
“No.” Shadows creep across Jaxon’s face, curling like smoke from an unseen fire. “About your town. Are you saying males mistreat their females?”
Both Ferria and I stiffen at the possessive phrase, but she holds back most of the irritation from her reply when she says, “Yes.”
“And it is allowed?” His voice cuts like a blade.
Ferria’s scowl falters, wariness flickering across her expression. “Uh…in so many words, yes.”
A thunderous crack splits the air. Lightning tears through the cloudless sky in a blinding arc. I flinch so hard my head smashes against Ferria’s chin.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” I breathe, whipping my gaze frantically across the tree line, searching for something—anything—that could explain the impossible. “What the hells was that!?”
“Nothing.” Jaxon’s gaze drifts past us, over the rough stretch of trampled earth, toward the opulent tent gleaming at the camp’s center. His frown deepens. “Someone needs to relax.”
I frown. What?
His focus snaps back, voice hard. “How common is it for males to harm females in Verdanthia?”
Ferria’s brow arches as she glances my way, silently passing the question to me.
I exhale, the sound heavy with resignation. “Common enough.”
As the town healer, I’ve seen more than I wish. Bruises hastily covered with cosmetics, split lips explained away with flimsy lies about accidents and falls. Too many women come to me bleeding, but they never confess the cause of their injuries.
“And Brother Fief is the most recent culprit,” Ferria cuts in, spewing the man’s name like a curse. “I don’t see why Jaslyn stays with that brute.”
I press my lips together. Jaslyn must be Fief’s wife.
I’ve seen and heard enough to know better than to judge another woman’s choices. I don’t know why Jaslyn stays with Fief, but I won’t criticize her for it. Our leaders should protect her and Rolf. They are the ones I judge.
“That is outrageous,” Jaxon growls.
Ferria’s eyes narrow into slits. “Are you saying Fae males don’t abuse those weaker than them?”
“Never.” The snarl rips from his throat with such conviction, it startles me.
Our doubt must be plain on our faces, because he continues. “If such a crime occurs in Eranthia, those males are punished. Females are valued. No honorable male would stand by and allow harm from the one who is meant to protect them.”
Valued.
Like the prized mares in the barracks—bred for strength, used for war, discarded when they’re no longer useful.
“Please.” Ferria rises with a huff. She slides her arms beneath mine and hauls me to my feet. “I don’t believe you. Your king is a murderous tyrant.”
Jaxon stiffens. Even the shadows clinging to him freeze, still as death.
His jaw grinds before he forces his next words out, clipped and sharp. “Not every male follows our king’s example.”
My brows lift despite myself. They don’t?
“But despite the Shadow King’s ruthless ways,” Jaxon continues, voice low, “females are treated far better in Eranthia than what I’ve witnessed among you humans.”
“How so?” I ask, eager to glean as much information about the Fae as his loose lips will allow.
“Well, for one, they are trained to fight.”
Ferria’s eyes shine at that. “All of them?”
He crosses his arms. “Well, all except the nobles’ daughters.”
“There it is.” Ferria snorts. “Only peasants are expendable.”