Page 112 of Blade of the Nightking

“You spend half the lesson getting up off the floor,” she shot back. “It’s infuriating. And it’s wasting my time.”

“You’re Fae,” I spat. “You have all the time in the world.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to spend it like this.”

“Then don’t.”

She held my stare for a beat, something simmering behind her eyes, before turning away and striding toward the wall of weapons.

A gust of wind curled in through the open terrace, brushing over my overheated skin. I closed my eyes for a moment, letting it soothe the ache in my muscles and the sting of fresh bruises.

“Wake up,” Segolayne snapped.

My eyes flew open just as something long and wooden came hurtling toward my face. I caught it at the last second, fingers closing clumsily around the curved frame.

A bow.

I stared at it, momentarily blank, as Segolayne grabbed my shoulder and spun me toward the open terrace.

Though dawn had come, thick storm clouds smothered the sky, leaving the world suspended somewhere between night and day. Only a faint glow along the horizon betrayed the hidden sun, washing the bay below in deep blues and muted steel-gray where the currents churned against the rocks.

She marched me to the very edge of the terrace. Outside, the wind whipped freely, tearing at my hair and clothes.

“Something different today,” Segolayne said, already impatient, as she dropped a quiver of arrows at my feet.

Below us, in the rougher stretch of water where the current ran strongest, a series of buoys bobbed unevenly against the swell. Painted along their bases were markings I assumed measured distance—I hadn’t learned numbers yet. Above them, in harsh red, were concentric circles.

Targets.

A dull roaring started in my ears.

My hand tightened around the bow, my palm suddenly slick with sweat as I stared out at the water and the floating targets below. And saw something else entirely.

Torchlight along crumbling battlements. Burning pitch. The rotting scent of the Infected beyond the walls. My quiver empty. One arrow left. I draw back the string as far as I can, shoulders straining with the effort, fingers burning. Aim—loose. Blood across snow. My father… My father⁠—

“Elowen.”

Segolayne’s hand clamped down on my shoulder hard enough to jar me back into myself. She shoved an arrow into my hand.

“Shoot,” she ordered, pointing toward the nearest buoy.

My mouth had gone dry. I couldn’t swallow.

Missed.

I missed.

Oh gods.

Segolayne forcefully turned me back toward the sea. Standing behind me, she repositioned my grip on the bow, notched the arrow against the string, then stepped away.

“Pull. Aim. Release.”

The roar in my ears only grew louder. I stood there staring blankly at the target while my father’s final moments replayed over and over behind my eyes. My hands shook violently around the bow.

“What are you waiting for?”

I couldn’t breathe properly.