Chapter 7 #2
To illustrate his point, he ignites the blade without a word, flames surging from hilt to tip in half a heartbeat.
Pointing the weapon away from us, he demonstrates a forward thrust that sends the blaze rushing off the tip into a fireball that shoots another two feet before dissipating.
The saber instantly reignites with a horizontal swing that leaves flames burning the air behind it.
My jaw drops. It never occurred to me to use incanting this way, always imagining it better suited for ranged combat. The idea of fighting in close quarters makes swallowing difficult.
“Obviously, you won’t be attempting any of this with those wooden swords. You’ll begin by practicing proper form and basic footwork, and I’ll return at the end of the lesson to review your progress.”
Professor Beckwith shows us the basic stance: his back foot pointed to the side and his front foot forward, with a slight bend in his knees. We imitate him, and to my relief, he makes corrections to both of us.
“Remember—perfecting your form can mean the difference between life and death.”
With those foreboding words as our motivation, we spend the rest of the period taking small steps forward and backward across the room while trying to maintain the proper stance, with the occasional forward lunge to break the monotony of it.
The wooden sword grows heavy within minutes, and by the end, I can barely hold my arm up.
Luckily, Beckwith returns earlier than expected and is satisfied with our demonstration, so there’s time to take a quick soak in my dorm before my next lesson.
Beckwith’s the only professor who doesn’t overload us with assignments, but at least it’s not limited to Reid and me. Alexis often joins us, drawing focals and memorizing incantations late into the night, barely finishing everything before exhaustion overtakes us.
After several days of barely leaving Reid’s company except for sleep, I’m in dire need of some alone time.
Following a Basics of Strategy lesson focused on fae curses—a subject not worth worrying about during the heat of battle but can be incredibly dangerous during prolonged encounters—I decline his invitation to get a head start on our assignment in the library.
Instead, I relax into one of the large, cushy armchairs scattered about the Tactical Wing’s antechamber and pull out my sketchbook.
Like most of the Academy, the ashen space is sparsely decorated, relying mostly on the purple upholstery with floral motifs to give it any semblance of life.
A gray carpet muffles the sound of footsteps as it leads up the wide staircase to the classrooms above.
Two girls sit on the far side of the room, speaking animatedly to one another. I sketch several quick gestures of them, hoping to capture their mirth as they gossip about our fellow students.
I’ve barely found time to draw since arriving here, and my stress rinses away with each stroke of charcoal along the page.
A few weeks into term, and life’s settled into a routine not much different from home.
I haven’t spoken to Sophie since our squabble, and while I’m getting along with Alexis well enough, the connections I’ve longed for still feel out of reach.
Despite spending all my time with Reid, I simply don’t have the same rapport with him that Alexis does.
Incanting seems to be all I have going for me, which means I’ll be spending my life praying the wars have truly ended so I never have to fight for real.
“Ellie?”
“Hmm?” I’m so intent on getting this nose right that I don’t look up until a hand lands on my shoulder, fingers tracing back and forth along its dips and curves.
Heat blooms through my chest as my heart quickens. It’s him.
“Caeo.” A smile lights up his face as he squeezes into my seat. It’s a large chair, but still meant for one, so we’re blissfully cramped together. Butterflies dance in the warmth where his body presses against mine.
He tucks his arm around me. “It’s been a while.”
It has, hasn’t it? Between my roommate drama, heavy workload, and Beckwith-induced exhaustion, I’ve hardly had a moment to think of him. Realizing how long it’s been, my nerves spike with worry that his feelings have changed.
“You didn’t find me,” I say.
He scratches the back of his head, his brow crinkling. “I guess not. But I did now.”
A smile wipes away his concern, and my fears retreat. Last time I saw him, he had to walk six miles to make a delivery for his mother—he’s likely even busier than I am.
His gaze drifts from my face down to my sketchbook. “Hey, those are really good.”
“Thanks.”
I glance down at my drawing, then back to his face, tracing his tender lines with my eyes. My fingers twitch, torn between conflicting urges: to draw him or run through his hair as I kiss his invitingly soft lips.
My mind squeals at the latter. What has he done to me?
He looks toward the staircase. “I can’t really stay—I’m already late for class. Do you think you’ll still be here after?”
“I can wait.” My core tingles in anticipation, already imagining the warmth of his body pressed against mine, the taste of his tongue.
Caeo brushes his fingers through my hair. “Then I’ll see you later.” His touch lingers on my chin as he stands.
I nod, biting my lip, then he hurries toward the stairs.
I turn back to my drawing, smiling to myself. The two girls I was sketching have seemingly disappeared, so I flip to a new page, planning to draw whatever comes to mind.
Nothing does.
But my stomach’s grumbling, so I pack up my sketchbook, heading to dinner early.