I shook my head, haunted by the reality of his worldly experience when naive wasn’t substantial enough to describe my sheltered existence. “You’re eighteen?” I repeated, trying to convince myself.
“Well, I think I am.” He laid his head against the bark.
“Don’t you know your birth date?” I asked, edging closer to him.
“Not exactly. I was so young when my parents died I can’t be sure of the exact day or even the month of my birth.”
I tightened my grip around his fingers. “That’s horrible.”
“Not really.” He shrugged, his eyes flicking to our hands. “What’s a birthday? A means of tracking time? I never knew how much time I had left, so what was the point in tracking how much I’d gained?”
“And eighteen is your best guess?”
“It’s simple math. I remember my birthday occurred sometime after the first snow in winter. So when I wandered across the border after my parents died, I started watching for the snowfall each year. Twelve snows since coming to Brisleia makes me eighteen.”
“Infallible logic.” I decided to shamelessly test the strength of my settling nerves and examine this startling information in detail: Darric Ursygh, the hooded stranger who had rescued me from a bandit cave and terrorized me senseless, the former soldier of Medial Alexandria’s elite regiment, an assassin—age eighteen.
He smirked wickedly. The unfathomably beautiful blue in his eyes swirled into recesses of leaden gray. I looked down before the fog could take the edges of my vision. “How long were you alone until you met Bromly and Flint?” I asked with a blush.
“Months.” He chuckled, watching me hide my face. “It was an incredible stroke of luck I found the Keenes. Staying in one place has always been difficult for me. I left Vegathyad, one foot in front of the other, and I’ve never really stopped wandering since. Being in the Onyx Guard allowed for constant movement. I saw many places, from the most remote tribal villages in Hydrodawn to cities carved out of lava flows in Balakaya. If it weren’t for your being at the Hovel, I’d be gone. I usually only stay long enough to keep my brothers busy with pelts.” He pushed the bottom of my chin to raise my gaze. “Flint keeps asking me when I’m leaving.”
“Are you planning to leave anytime soon?” I asked ingenuously.
He shook his head. “No.”
The instant his thumb grazed my smiling bottom lip, an unfamiliar fiery current shot through me. The elation I felt from his staying at the Hovel spilled across my entire body.
Abruptly, the cat-formed Sage gave an irate growl that disturbed the silence of the forest. We turned simultaneously to see her swishing her tail through the grass, tossing petals into the air.
Darric slinked away from me just as she bared her claws and swiped his boot. “All right. All right.” Surrendering, he narrowed his eyes at her. “I hate that fucking cat.”
The days turned into weeks. The time when the Hovel brothers would pack their wares and travel to Burge approached at an astonishing rate. The date was set; we would leave the first week of July. That left six weeks for Darric and me to continue training in the forest.
The three were at odds regarding what to do with me when the time came. Everything from abandoning me in the woods to taking me back to the bandit cave, escorting me to Burge, or simply leaving me in the valley had been suggested around the nightly fireside suppers.
Darric expelled the most despicable plans for my disposal, though I suspected he voiced them only to maintain a facade. Flint wanted me to go everywhere and anywhere they went until the end of eternity, and Bromly was indifferent, as long as the outcome didn’t involve killing me.
After three weeks of combat training, I had not touched a single weapon. The lessons were divided into two sessions: balancing on the beam until my legs gave out, then being blindfolded and forced to recall my surroundings. This did not always take place inside the wisteria forest. Darric dragged me to many locations throughout the valley and tested my memory after giving me a brief moment to observe the area. The aggravating task became easier with practice.
At the end of the third week, he broke the routine to relax against a tree base and watch me struggle to lift the entire wisteria forest pond out of its basin. My mental strength had increased, and though I was unable to raise the water completely, I could lift it significantly higher before my concentration waned. That was the day I finally convinced him my conjuring came out of thin air rather than some bizarre form of leakage from my skin. I created crystalline droplets that rained under the tree canopy, complete with the associated blue dusting of sparkles. Darric contentedly lay in the grass watching the sunlight filter through the drizzle and didn’t ask me to stop until we were both thoroughly saturated.
The following day started the most stressful and intense week of the entire training process.
That morning my instructor paced between two lovely twisted trees. Reservation warped his movements, as if he didn’t want to proceed with this exercise. “Today is going to be rough.”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, my arms tightly crossed over my chest. “I’m ready.”
He stopped in front of the closest tree and took a huge breath. Slowly releasing the air, he unbuckled his leather belt and pulled it from his hips. My eyes bulged. Never had he removed his scabbard. Sliding the sword from the sheath, he drove the blade deep into the roots, where it stuck, hard and immobile.
Perplexed, I lowered my arms.
Reaching into the top of his boot, he detached one of his hunting knives and stabbed it into the trunk, then did the same with the other forbidding blade tucked in the opposite shoe. From a pocket always hidden beneath the hang of his sword, he removed a unique dagger with a twisted tri-edged blade and carelessly let it slip from his fingers. Lastly, he slid the knives from his bracers—three from each wrist—and methodically stabbed each one through the bark. I found myself silently counting. Ten weapons in total.
“This part of your training will require both of us to be completely disarmed. I don’t want any accidents.”
I stared, stunned at seeing him unarmed. It filled me with a surge of dread. He couldn’t kill me with a sword now, but his physical strength could produce an entirely different and horrifying type of blunt injury I had never considered—something I suspected would be a lot more painful.
“Now, Aya, I would be mistaken to assume you don’t have a weapon hidden in that dress.” He held up a finger. “Excuse me, let me rephrase that. A weapon made of metal.”
Luken’s dagger. My stomach clenched, and a familiar knot tightened my throat; there would be no more hiding the comforting blade.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m waiting, my lady.” His eyes darted to my ankle. He already knows about the dagger. Someone had removed my shoes and reapplied the weapon for safekeeping while nursing me back to health. Of course, Darric. How stupid of me to think otherwise.
I huffed and knelt to the ground, moved my skirt, and revealed the knife caked with a layer of dirt. Luken’s gift was firmly attached inside the scabbard, as if it would never be used.
“That’s what I thought,” he said as I untied the fastening and pulled the dagger from its dusty black sheath. “Fine blade for a girl who claims to have no connection to Medial Alexandria.”
I rubbed my dirty hands on my dress as I approached the weapon-filled tree.
“I used to have one just like it.” He reeled with skepticism.
“I didn’t steal it.”
“I didn’t say you did. Such a thing would be practically impossible. Do you think I stole my sword?”
I stared at the mystical hilt ensconced in the tree roots. “Did you?”
“I earned it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Well, for all intents and purposes, let’s say I earned this too.” Mirroring his actions, I attempted to stab the blade into the trunk. The dagger went a mere inch into the bark and stopped.
His chuckling flooded anger into my bl
ood. I shot him a harsh glare and examined the variety of weapons stored in the wood, each one buried to the grip. He leaned his shoulder against the tree in enjoyment and waited with a condescending grin. I stabbed into the trunk a second time, but my effort was even worse, and the blade bounced off the bark.
He slid his hand over my wrist, plucked Luken’s dagger from my grasp, and shoved the metal deep into the trunk. “Don’t ever let anyone take your weapon.” He pointed a scolding finger at me.
I scowled. “You took it from me!”
“You let me.”
“I thought you were trying to be helpful.”
“You can’t trust that’s everyone’s intention.” He left me by the tree. “We’ll discuss why you’re carrying a dagger designed for the Hell Squad of the Onyx Guard later. Today we start physical conditioning: grappling and unarmed combat.”
I gaped, wanting to shrink back to the Hovel.
“First, if you find yourself grappling, you have already made a few tactical errors. Your goal becomes to incapacitate your opponent long enough to draw your sword or create distance. These defensive maneuvers will also apply in scenarios where deadly force is unnecessary. Let what I teach you today serve as a warning. Women don’t commonly fight. You are unique in that aspect. Men who fight have egos. The more you defeat, the more hostile they will turn. You need to be prepared for the consequences men tend to be capable of when trying to dominate a woman they see as a threat.”
I tilted my head, trying to understand what he was hinting at.
Seeing my confusion, he elaborated. “In other words, as a woman, being killed is not the worst outcome you face if you allow a man to gain physical power over you. Enemies you encounter are going to see you as a conquest in more ways than just combat.”
I bit into my lip. “Sexually.”
He nodded, letting his warning traipse through my head. He took my hand and balled it into a fist, pulling my thumb free of the grip, then pointed to the middle knuckle. “This is your impact point. Anywhere else will break your hand. Keep your wrist straight. Don’t allow it to buckle.” He mimicked the positioning. “Dominant leg back. Hands up. Chin down.”
I corrected myself accordingly.
Next, he pointed to various locations on his face: the eye socket, the jawline, the underside of the nose. “These are facial targets. Never hit the cranium. It’s rock.”
After providing minimal information, he instructed me to throw a punch directly into his chest. I resisted until he started laughing. “You can hit me as hard as you want. You won’t hurt me.” His arrogant, patronizing tone was the motivation I needed.
Hitting Darric was like beating into fleshy stone, but it felt undeniably amazing to slam my fists into him. The anger I kept buried came to the surface and escaped through each punch.
I hated him for mocking my weaknesses. I hated myself for loving the lustful way he looked at me. I hated Flint for believing I was a harlot. The accursed thoughts evolved into memories of the palace. My parents’ betrayal. Being sold into marriage. Prince Marcus. Dreams. Fae.
He snatched my wrists mid-swing. “Stop-stop-stop.”
I panted, on the verge of tears.
“You’re getting angry. Don’t let emotion impel your force.” He released me, setting a hand on my shoulder. “Dare I ask what you were thinking?”
I shook my head, pulling myself together, and huffed out the last piece of ire circling my brain.
“Try again.”
Further instruction introduced additional parts of the body that could be used for incapacitation: the knee, the elbow, the forearm. Locations of impact: the stomach, instep, throat, and groin—the last being particularly vulnerable in men. I didn’t need him to explain why.
Sparring was common among the knights of Brisleia. Luken enjoyed the occasional brawl. But it didn’t take me long to realize Darric was a dirty fighter. He fought without respect. No chivalry. No limits. No rules. “In a scenario where grappling has become a life-or-death situation, you do anything it takes to live.” Scratch. Bite. Pull hair. Gouge eyes. “Look for weapons of opportunity. Never fight fair.” Sticks. Rocks. Dirt. “In the end you are in charge of your own moral character. You bring the outcome.”
I bristled. “You’ve won fights being this callous?”
He refused to answer.
The days Darric taught me grappling techniques bled seamlessly into one another. Overloaded with information and exertion, I couldn’t differentiate one day or even one moment from the next.
“I want you to attempt to incapacitate me using any of the methods I’ve shown you, but this time I’ll be fighting back,” he challenged sometime midweek.
I nodded hastily, gulped, and lunged for him. He caught my fist and twisted my arm backwards. I had to spin to keep my elbow from dislocating, and my back slammed into his chest. Darric held my wrist in an uncomfortable arch against my spine. His nose grazed the side of my neck, breathing in the smell of my hair. The feathery touch sent a heated wave down my legs and weakened my knees, making me momentarily forget the ache in my arm.
He let me go and took several steps back, then curled a finger towards himself, beckoning me to reengage.
This time when I threw my fist at his face, he let it make contact. Instant pain shot up my fingers and throbbed through my wrist. I clasped my hand and was immediately tackled to the ground. He pushed me into the grass, pinning my arms above my head, and his knees straddled my hips.
“Never let your guard down. No one is going to wait for you to bandage your hand,” he chided. “Your small size is useful when evading attacks, but the second you are in this position, it’s over.”
I struggled beneath him, thrashing my torso and trying to slide out the way he had shown me.
He leaned forwards, applying more of his weight to my chest, and the fight instantly ended. I couldn’t breathe. “Once you’ve got your opponent on the ground, keep them there and do not turn your back. Smash their kneecap, crush their larynx, or make sure his stones are too obliterated to ever love another woman.”
I couldn’t help but giggle at the reddening spot under his eye, and he slithered off me. “Take it seriously, Aya.”
“You’re so strong,” I panted. “It’s like you are solid muscle.”
“The Senate puts the Onyx Guard through extensive physical training,” he explained, unfazed.
I stared into the purple blooms, catching my breath, and several petals fell onto my head. “I’m ready to go again.”
There was too much instruction to process. How did he expect me to remember every move, every placement of my foot? Clinching. Sprawling. Submission holds. Balance throws. Turnovers and reversals. Escapes.
He repeatedly pinned me into submission as I heaved and gasped labored breaths, trying in vain to gain any advantage. The smell of his skin had long since rubbed off on my clothing. Petals stuck deeply in my curls. Grass stains defaced Ambrosia’s dress. Each time he touched me, our skin stuck together from the heat of our bodies entangled in a wrestling brawl I couldn’t win.
He claimed I was improving, but it felt like spectacular failure. Each time I stabbed my elbow into his stomach, I met stony resistance. Each time I threw a punch, he slammed me into the ground, and the strength of his hands left the same fingerprint bruises over my legs that appeared across Flint’s neck.
Having him so close to me day after day created maddening interference for my clairvoyance. He yelled at me to concentrate, to put inhibitions aside, to focus on the fight. But the fight was an unrelenting battle against my reason. He affected me in ways I couldn’t control. I would senselessly allow him to gain leverage just to feel his body pressing against mine.
In the end, the tumbling act of grappling would prove an unsurpassable obstacle for both of us.
Darric’s arms encased me like a vise. His heart pounded into my back—slow, heavy, threatening knocks that caused my chest to cave over my stomach. The instruction regarding how to escape this parti
cular submission hold was forgotten, and my body went weak as I neared the ground in a losing fight.
“Aya, focus!” he scolded in a harsh rasp.
His rough hands dug into my sides. My knees carved holes in the dirt with his svelte frame curved around my back. My insides were starting to twist over themselves in ways that made me doubt they would continue functioning properly.
“Darric,” I pleaded, desperate for release. I couldn’t get out of this. If he held me any longer, my chest would collapse, but he refused to relent. “Get off me!” I fumed, throwing my head back to hit his face with my skull and missing. Instead, his hard shoulder absorbed the collision. My eyes rolled, and I groaned from the bewildering pain.
He finally loosened his hold to knot his fingers deep in the strands of my hair. “You okay?” He massaged the sore point of impact. The exposed skin of my throat caught the onslaught of his heated breath.
I let out an unintentional moan that transformed my fight into submission. “Yes.”
He chuckled low, grazing his lips down my neck. A rush of electricity shot through my spine when his mouth made contact. It felt as if a flaming coal had been pressed into my skin.
My body spasmed as he trailed slow open-mouthed kisses along my throat, punctuated by his warm exhales. The intense heat between us was quickly growing to a fever. His grasp slackened and he set me free.
Instead of listening to the scolding in my brain, I wrapped my arm around the back of his head and laced my fingers into the feathered locks of his hair. Inspiring to know at least one part of him was so soft. I shut my eyes, dizzy and unsure I was still experiencing reality, and allowed the forbidden ecstasy of Darric’s mouth to warp my senses. His hand trailed up my body and coursed over my breasts, toying with the lacing on the front of my dress as he gripped hard handfuls of my chest.
A deep growl came from the back of his throat as he pressed me against his front, grinding his own reaction to touching me into my lower back.
I turned to face him, and our lips brushed in a tortuous sting that caused an unfamiliar warm tingle to spiral between my legs. I leaned in to eliminate the last piece of distance between us and give in to my blatant lack of control, but he suddenly lunged away from me. I dropped to the ground with barely enough time to catch myself.
Dreams of the Fae: Transcendence Page 32