Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
A camera operator walks backward in front of Coraline, who escorts us across the inclined bridge that connects the ceremonial arena along the city’s edge back to the hub of Caligo.
Onlookers press against either side of the bridge’s iron railing as they point and cheer at our ragtag group of soon-to-be martyrs.
Fighting against the instinct to lower my head, I scan their faces, spotting a few familiar ones, yet failing to find Taurance or my parents.
Gem cranes her neck, jade eyes lingering on a woman who could be a distant cousin, but not her twin.
With both of our heads turned, we don’t notice that those in front of us have slowed until Gem walks into the backside of a redheaded woman. If my memory is correct, I believe she was the third to be selected, right after Twilynn.
“Oh! Sorry about that, Faron,” Gem says while flinching back.
She waves off the apology. “Don’t be! I was distracted, too. Checking to see if my sister’s here.”
Gem runs her fingers through her close-cropped hair, avoiding the bandage. “Same.”
“They’re probably keeping our loved ones away for now to build tension before filming our final goodbyes,” whispers a willowy brunette on Faron’s left.
My nose scrunches. “You know, I’m not sure why I expected anything else.”
Once we reach the end of the bridge, Coraline guides us away from the swarming crowd into a private stairwell, not stopping until we reach an unmarked door six levels down. She pulls on the longest of her three silver necklaces, producing a key from the neckline of her cloak.
“Welcome to your training facility,” Coraline singsongs while flourishing an arm into the now open doorway.
“Uniforms have been provided in the changing stalls on the left. I’ll be back in two hours to escort you to your temporary living quarters before curfew, but don’t fret.
You’ll be in good hands. I’m so pleased to announce that your training instructor is one of our highly esteemed Guards of the Gate! ”
Boots thud against granite as the instructor in question marches up the steps.
We fall back against the limestone wall, giving him space to lead the way into the facility.
My shoulders raise as I lock eyes with the man who was lapping at my throat less than twenty-four hours ago—the widower who thought me better to bed than to wed.
At least he has the decency to flush when he averts his gaze and waves at our group to file in.
Coraline prances off before the door clicks back into place, and our instructor clears his throat. “Help yourself to the equipment. Towels are on your left here if you spill any blood.”
Piles of raggedy towels lie haphazardly in a basket to the left of the door. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors line the right side of the room, and the reflection from the bioluminescent tube lights casts a dim glow throughout the surprisingly large space.
“If you gotta puke, aim for the buckets. I won’t be cleaning that filth up for you.
If you miss, you know where the towels are.
” The guard points at the tin pails scattered along the room’s perimeter before putting a sand clock atop a shelf lined with circular weights.
“Like Mrs. Lunam said, you got two hours till curfew, and she’ll bring you back here first thing tomorrow evening for another two. ”
He turns to claim the metal stool beside the exit.
Kalden strides up to him. “Aren’t you here to oversee their training?”
Their training. Not our training. He doesn’t see himself as one of us, and why should he?
With his six-foot-plus frame and disciplined muscles, Kalden is years ahead of us in terms of physical proficiency.
My stomach flutters as I acknowledge that a handful of hours isn’t enough time to change that, let alone adequately prepare us for what awaits above.
“Training is self-led,” grunts our instructor.
“Self-led? You expect these women to instinctually know how to prepare for battle?”
The guard stiffens at Kalden’s escalating tone.
“They’ve all been given basic training. Twice a year, we host an entire week of mandatory combat exercises for Tier Threes.
And the chaperone requirement doesn’t apply to the communal fitness facility, so they’ve had plenty of opportunities to practice those skills all year round. ”
Kalden folds his arms, and the borrowed brown shirt squeezes against his muscles, stirring a warm flutter within me. “And how has this training worked out so far for past Huntresses?”
Veins protruding from his forehead, our instructor rises from his stool, but Kalden cuts him off.
“A couple weeks here and there of basic combat lessons isn’t enough to turn these women into soldiers. And if you really believe it is, I’m not sure whether that makes you a mindless moron, or simply unconcerned because it doesn’t affect you whether they live or die.”
Someone gasps behind me.
Kalden isn’t just challenging our so-called instructor with his words. To question how things are done for the Hunt is to question Chancellor Bren. And, if you ask a purist, questioning the chancellor may as well be an act of rebellion.
Face nearly as red as blood, the guard’s right arm uncoils in an uppercut, but Kalden shifts, dipping low into his hips and evading the blow.
The guard’s nostrils flare as he swings his elbow downward, aiming for Kalden’s face. I wince, expecting to hear his nose crunching beneath the impact.
It doesn’t. Kalden crouches and rolls, pivoting back to his feet on the guard’s side.
Golden eyes flick to mine, as if to check whether I’m watching, and comprehension lifts my brows. This isn’t a spontaneous brawl. This fight was purposefully instigated. And what better way to begin our training session than with a demonstration?
The guard rushes forward. A second before he lunges, Kalden jumps over his hunched back.
Panting, the man braces his hands on his knees. As he’s catching his breath, Kalden fetches a towel from the basket and wipes away non-existent sweat from his temples.
“None of you are warriors, so evasion is your best bet at survival. Offensive attacks are useless in a one-on-one combat scenario with a more powerful opponent,” Kalden says to the group while tossing the rag at the panting guard, whose frown lines deepen as he realizes he played right into Kalden’s reckless training lesson.
“Tonight, we’ll go over some basic dodging and blocking techniques.
Tomorrow, I’ll check your running form. Sprinting for speed will help you get away, but once there’s enough distance between you and your opponent, you’ll need to adjust your technique for longevity. ”
Our instructor mutters under his breath and stomps out of the room, locking the sliding door into place behind him.
Kalden strips off the too-small shirt, which had bunched halfway up his abdomen during his skirmish. He smooths a palm over his collarbone, brow furrowing, then searches through the discarded shirt until he pulls out his nightstone pendant and secures it around his neck.
Something coils low in my stomach. I tell myself it’s fear stirred by Kalden’s warnings.
Gem nudges her elbow into my rib cage. “You’re drooling.”
“Gem,” I chastise with a whisper, head whipping around to make sure no one heard her.
Thankfully, our comrades are busy swarming around Kalden, who’s rolling out gray mats halfway across the room. He reaches up to grab another folded mat from the top shelf, stretching a pink jagged line that spans across his right shoulder blade.
Whatever gave him those brutal scars, is that what made him so . . . rigid? Not in that way, but in the sternness of his clenched jaw, taut brows, and near-permanent scowl.
“You’re doing it again,” Gem teases. “It’s not too late, you know. Maybe you can convince him to marry you before they give us the boot tomorrow.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, let me push him down and seduce him into proposing right on the mats.”
I ignore the warmth flooding through my veins at the prospect, reminding myself that it’s a ridiculous notion.
There’s a reason I stick to marks who are considerably older and less coveted.
It takes a certain level of desperation for a man to desire the attention of a broken throwaway.
Even if I were to throw myself at Kalden, I’m more likely to believe he’d implement one of those ducking maneuvers than welcome my advances.
“I’ve already been selected, Gem,” I say while ambling towards the changing stalls. “There’s no way the chancellor would pardon me now. Him, maybe. But not me.”
Once we’re in our uniforms, we slip into the back and join the others in a series of stretches.
Reaching her fingertips to the mat, Gem asks, “So, you won’t even try?”
“There’s no point,” I whisper as we shift, rotating one arm to reach up as high as it can go while keeping the other hand on the floor.
My boobs threaten to spill out of the provided top, which is a generous word to describe the sleeveless sliver of fabric that is both too tight to be comfortable and too loose to be supportive. “If you’re going, I’m going.”
Switching arms, Gem grunts. “You know, you used to be so amenable. Now you’re almost as stubborn as me.”
“You’re a bad influence,” I concur, and we both chuckle.
By the shadows, it feels good to laugh. After the stress of our failed getaway and the selection ceremony, we need this. Our giggles swiftly escalate into a full-blown laughing fit, like we’re no better than rambunctious children.
Through my tear-blurred vision, I spot booted feet approaching. Kalden, who’s now in the provided dark gray uniform that’s barely larger than the previous borrowed clothing, frowns while stalking towards us.
I double over.
The gold in Kalden’s irises flares. “What’s so amusing about your certain death?”
“It’s not—” I try to collect myself enough to say. “It’s not that.”