14. Bodin
Chapter 14
Bodin
S now crunches under my boots as I stride into the frost-encrusted courtyard, our Shadow and her three mortal friends trailing behind. The biting cold nips at my exposed skin, but I ignore it. My focus remains razor-sharp: hone these mortals into something resembling competent fighters. Perhaps even teach them a lesson about nature.
It is unforgiving and relentless. The winter cares little for warmth or emotion. It will not bow to a heartfelt plea. Willow will not perform at her best if she worries about their safety. The sooner she learns to cut the distractions, the better.
“Two laps,” I bark, marching towards the stables where weapons for sparring await. “Now.”
To their credit, no groans erupt as the exhibitors shed capes and other cumbersome clothing before beginning their jog. As I retrieve the weapons—likely rusted or moldy after this morning’s revelation about Fox—I seize the opportunity to assess our new house inhabitants.
Peggy, the older woman with cropped hair and a stout figure, moves slower than the others but with unwavering determination. Geraldine, the younger female with ebony curls, appears frail, yet her eyes blaze with inner fire. But the third friend, the male, sets my teeth on edge, especially when he murmurs something that makes Willow toss back her head in laughter before she loses her breath and continues running.
A low growl builds in my chest.
“Enough!” I shout, pointing to the weapons laid out on a patch of gravel peeking through the snow. “Pair up and join me. You and you together,” I order, singling out the male and Willow. “You two,” I nod to the others. “Pick a weapon each.”
Their ragged breaths cloud the air as they amble toward me like a herd of disorganized, lazy boars. The man—Max, I recall with distaste—shivers visibly, rubbing his arms. Weak. Tentative. A liability.
I begin my lecture, voice carrying across the frosty courtyard. “Mental resilience and physical awareness are crucial. You must ground yourselves in the here and now, even when every part of your body screams with cold.”
Pacing before them, each crunch of snow punctuating my words, I continue: “The first trial involves escaping a nightmare dreamscape. You’ll face anything from Terror attacks to psychological warfare. Know yourself—your fears, desires, capabilities, and breaking points. You may confront twisted versions of yourself or loved ones. Remember what’s real.”
I fix them with a hard stare, lingering on Willow. Bile rises in my throat when I shift my attention back to her companions. They’re dead weight, distracting her from self-preservation.
“The second trial,” I continue, “is straightforward: a physical threat. Terrors can break, burn, and bleed like you. In a nightmare dreamscape, defeating them depends on self-knowledge. In the flesh, exploit their weaknesses. Be fearless. Strike without hesitation—even if they wear a familiar face. Understood?”
They nod, but something flickers in Willow’s eyes before she masks it, fidgeting with her sword hilt. My jaw clenches. That weapon is inadequate. I make a mental note to retrieve—and improve—her homeland blade from Peablossom at the registration building.
“Finally,” I growl, “you’ll infiltrate the subterranean through a watergate. This combines the first two trials with unknown dangers. It’s enemy territory. Many don’t return.”
“Watergate?” Willow interrupts, eyes wide. “As in . . . swimming?”
The fear in her voice twists my gut. Fox’s letter, read five times this morning, emphasized her water phobia. “A short drop,” I explain, softening my tone despite myself. “Then you emerge in the Subterranean.”
“Define ‘short,’” she presses.
“Puddle-sized,” I admit. When she falls silent, I continue: “The key to winning the final trial is to stay focused on your goal—retrieve the assigned item and escape. Run from Terrors, ignore pleas for help, hide in shadows if necessary. Understood?”
They nod again, determination etched on their faces. My gaze lingers on Willow. She stands tall, silver braid catching weak winter sunlight, but tension radiates from her stance.
“Now,” I command, “show me what you’ve got.”
The couples spread out in the courtyard. The evergreen trees and pale spires looming behind the rear boundary fence are a reminder the Ivory Palace is always nearby. I fold my arms, assessing as they enter a lazy, sloppy sparring match—more witty banter than actual combat.
Rage boils within me. I scoop up a clump of snow, compact it, and hurl it at Max’s head. It connects with a satisfying thud.
“You’re not taking this seriously,” I snarl.
Fear flashes in his eyes. Willow’s jaw drops in outrage, but before she can protest, baying and snarling erupts from the stables. The Wildling attempts to breach the locked doors. He won’t get inside. The doors are floor-to-ceiling and locked tight. An idea comes to mind, and I turn back to them. “The next lazy attempt at sparring or disrespect earns you stable-mucking duty. Understood?”
They mumble assent.
“‘Yes, sir ’ is the correct response,” I snap.
The sparring intensifies. I circle, observing. Geraldine’s footwork shows promise, but she telegraphs every move. Her wide stance leaves her vulnerable. Peggy swings her weapon like a club—all force, no finesse.
I grasp Peggy’s wrist, demonstrating a smoother motion. “Too much force leaves you unable to adapt.”
“Sorry,” she mutters. “Long way from breeding Corgis.” At my arched brow, she elaborates, “Dogs. From the old world.”
“She’s great with animals.” Geraldine sniffs, wiping her nose. “Told me how humming when she works helps calm them. Right, Peg?”
“You can’t sing a Terror to sleep,” I growl, kicking out to widen her stance. “Balls of your feet. Loose knees. Better.”
Laughter draws my attention. Willow beams at Max. My eyes narrow inhumanly at the back of his brown-haired head. I stride over in time to catch what might not be evident to Max but is glaring to me: Willow pulls her punch at the last moment, sparing Max’s pain. Fury ignites within me. I stride over, seize Max by the scruff, and deliver the blow Willow couldn’t—blood sprays, painting the snow crimson.
He cries out, covering his nose. Willow shouts at me before I grab her viciously by the collar, twisting it and tugging her so close that our noses almost touch. Her scent—wild, defiant—floods my senses.
“You think you’re doing them favors?” I hiss.
“They’re my team. My allies. I can’t do this alone.”
“Protecting them from harsh realities teaches nothing.”
“You didn’t need to make him bleed,” she snaps, eyes flashing despite her trembling lip. “You didn’t need to break his damn nose.”
My tone softens, but my grip remains firm. “He’ll face far worse from creatures more violent than me.”
Guilt works in her gaze. She knows I am right. Coddling them is worse than lying to them. It’s sending them to their death with a blindfold on.
“You’re taking out your frustrations on him,” she whispers.
It hasn’t escaped my notice that she allows this dominance. Her arms hang loose, her body limp. But the fire in her golden eyes promises defiance. It stokes a hunger within me.
“For good reason,” I growl.
“Jealous much?” Her eyebrow arches.
I release her, blinking. “Absurd.”
“Sure.” Her lips curve sardonically. “Just like you weren’t jealous of Briar. Or even Varen.”
Other males’ names on her lips ignite something primal within me. Varen, I can accept. Any in our hive, fine. Never another. The thought startles me. I turn away, her warmth lingering. My body betrays me—pulse-quickening, muscles tensing with the desire to pull her close again.
Red stains the snow. The mortals huddle together, simpering. I’ve gone too far, I realize. But I must keep her safe, even from herself.
Still, I can’t be everywhere all the time. I move to heal Max’s nose. Willow might be right. She needs allies, a team. But a selfish part of me wishes she only needed me.