13
Another loud roar echoes through the arena. Rook appears subdued as he approaches the center, stopping before Rey, his hands hanging loose at his sides.
“First Lieutenant,” she says with a smirk. “Who’s your pick?”
Again, everyone erupts into shouting and excitement, people suggesting various names and just generally shit-talking.
I notice Navy and Justin have tensed up as they watch their brother.
They didn’t seem this worried about Fisher, and I wonder if they expect Rook’s punishment to be worse, or maybe they aren’t as close.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Navy says. “I just hate it when he fights.”
That makes two of us.
I turn to face Rook, still looking good enough to eat, as he runs a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing. The dark makeup lends him a dangerous, mysterious look. I’m a little obsessed.
“Ugh,” Navy says, and I glance over at her pained expression. “Get that look off your face. I don’t need to imagine all the filthy thoughts about my brother going on in your head.”
“There was no look!” I protest, which causes Navy to grimace and then burst into laughter. Even Justin smiles, and I feel my cheeks warm.
“Fine, maybe a small one,” I say softly. While I can tell myself I can no longer trust Rook, my heart, along with some of my more unmentionable body parts, might have other ideas.
As if sensing my attention, Rook looks over and gently lifts the corner of his mouth into a smile that feels like an arrow running straight through my chest. We’re surrounded by people, but I think that smile was meant only for me.
Then he turns to face the far end of the arena.
My heart skips over itself as Navy takes my hand and squeezes it.
“I challenge the high commander!” he shouts, and once again, everyone loses their minds.
“Fuck,” Justin says as Navy inhales sharply.
“Is this a bad thing?” I ask as Summit’s face stretches into a smile while he rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles.
He shrugs out of a long leather jacket and hands it to someone behind him before marching toward Rook. As he crosses the arena floor, his top goes next, revealing a torso stacked with muscle, along with a tattoo running up his ribs and spreading over his left pec.
More roars erupt in the stands as people stamp their feet and chant.
“It’s just a thing with them,” Navy says. “Rook has never beaten him in hand-to-hand combat our entire lives.”
Ah, so this is the true punishment.
Rook goes next, stripping off his shirt to the sound of screams and cheers, revealing a body not all that different from the marble statues lining the hallways of Amery.
“Why are the men in my life so ridiculous?” Navy muses, and I snort as Justin glares at her. “Not you, of course, my sweet baby brother.”
Justin rolls his eyes and rubs his hands on his thighs, anticipating the fight.
The audience is wild. I’m pretty sure half of them are in love with Summit and the other half with Rook. Actually, I think most of them are in love with both. I can’t keep my eyes off Rook as father and son face off, their stances stooped and their feet planted wide.
“He’s really never beaten him?” I ask as Rey belts out the rules for their benefit one more time. Something tells me they don’t need the reminder.
“Not once,” Navy says. “He’s come close, but I think Dad might have been drunk.
Or coming off a flu? Either way, he wasn’t in top fighting shape.
He taught Rook—well, all of us—everything he knows, so he understands all our tricks.
The promise is that if Rook can beat him someday, Dad will hand over command of the Veil. ”
“Just like that?”
Navy offers me a skeptical look. “Trust me, it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Everyone is screaming and cheering, pounding the floorboards. It’s so loud I can barely think.
“Do they all know that?” I ask, thumbing the crowd behind me.
She looks back and then smirks. “Everyone knows that.”
I huff as the fight begins. Rook charges first, snagging his dad around the waist, his head butting against his chest. They clash, clinging to each other as they circle around and around.
Everyone is already standing, screaming on both sides as Rook and his father twist and turn, each landing random hits.
A jab to the stomach. A glancing blow to the jaw. A roundhouse kick to the back.
At that, Rook goes flying, soaring across the arena, and crashes face down onto the floor.
I gasp as he slides for several feet before coming to a stop.
More screaming and chanting. People urging him up.
It takes a few seconds before Rook pushes on to his knees.
There’s a cut on his brow and a scrape down his chest. His lip is split, blood dribbling down his chin.
It’s been only a few minutes, and he already looks like shit.
I catch a glimpse of Faroe Athira watching from the edge of the arena with her hands clasped and her eyes pinched.
“What does your mom think of this?” I ask Navy, who shrugs.
“This is Dad’s way. She accepted it a long time ago. He loves us, but he’s always pushing us to be the best versions of ourselves.”
The fighting continues as I think about my own father.
He was hard on me, too, but the Athira kids seem to worship and adore Summit for it rather than resent him.
Of course, other circumstances make our relationships very different.
Beyond their training, I’d guess that Summit Athira has never laid a violent hand on his wife or children a single day in his life.
Rook and his dad are back at it, lurching and feinting as they circle each other. Another punch to the jaw snaps Summit’s head back, courtesy of a decisive blow from Rook. Summit stumbles for a few steps, blood blooming on his lips. He shakes his head before he spits it out. Then he charges.
They meet, hands flying as they block and deflect, their feet shuffling back and forth.
Rook is good. I remember how amazing he was on the mat.
No wonder he had no problem beating everyone at school.
He’s been training this way for his entire life.
It occurs to me how much he was faking it in the gym.
That he was holding so much back and he could have wiped the floor with any of us.
But as good a fighter as Rook is, his father is even better. His movements are quick and precise, fluid and measured, with years of experience behind every blow.
They’re both sweating now, a sheen gleaming on their skin under the harsh light. I watch the bunch and flex of muscles as they jostle.
Summit jabs Rook in the stomach and then socks him in the jaw. Rook stumbles, falling to his knees as the crowd roars.
“How badly will he hurt him?” I ask, clinging to Navy.
I hate this. I hate seeing Rook wounded.
He sways for a few seconds, and then he pitches forward, landing face down to the roar of the crowd. Summit saunters over and stands over his son’s prostrate form.
“I mean . . .” Navy is saying when the arena doors suddenly bang open, and everyone turns toward the commotion.
Guards.
The Shield’s Circle Guards, to be exact, in their sleek white armor, stunners gripped in their hands.
Immediately, I’m on my feet.
Four Guards enter the arena and stop, facing each other in pairs. Rook is peering up through the blood running into his eyes as he presses a hand to his ribs. He rubs the back of his hand over his bloody mouth before he glances at me.
They found us.
Then someone else enters the arena, passes the Guards, and comes to a stop as everyone falls into a hush.
It’s the one and only General Nyxia Sol.