I stand to my full height and throw my pack over my shoulder. I don’t have time for this. Craning my neck back, I look up to meet his eyes. “Iama Veil,” I retort.
“Only you’re not,” he replies simply. I can hear the satisfaction in his voice. It’s dripping with it.
“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” a feminine voice quips from behind him.
His shoulders stiffen at the intrusion. He draws a hand across his mouth before slowly turning toward the newcomer. A silver-haired woman with a heart-shaped face and violet eyes stares back at him with a look that reeks of disdain. To say she’s breathtaking would be criminally understated. To imply she is unimpressed with him would be woefully downplayed.
I don’t personally know her. I’ve seen her a few times in passing and at meals, but she was typically by Yaretta’s side. I made sure to keep my distance. I certainly didn’t expect her to speak up on my behalf.
Makon circles her as a predator might when sizing up his prey. His thumb traces over his bottom lip as if he’s contemplating all the ways to devour her, and none of them in the good way. “The thing is, I don’t see anyone around here my size,” he says in a condescending tone.
She scoffs under her breath, clearly unimpressed. “Then perhaps you should move along and look elsewhere.” She raises a delicate brow at him and somehow looks down her nose at the same time. It’s quite a feat, considering he’s easily half a foot taller than she is.
“Perhaps you should stay out of conversations you’re not invited into,” he counters, his voice tight with annoyance.
I’d love to stay and see this play out, but I’m already late to class. I shuffle backward, discreetly working my way toward the door. I’m banking on the fact they’re too wrapped up in their battle of wills to miss me. I hate leaving her in this predicament, but something tells me she can handle her own.
“What’s your name, first-year?” he demands.
She chuckles softly. “I didn’t hear you say please,” she all but coos in his direction. Her lips are pulled into a contemptuous smirk aimed to antagonize and rile.
The provocateur might have met his match.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Doesn’t matter. You’re inconsequential.”
She leans in close, invading his personal space. “Careful there, big guy, that’s an awfully big word for such a small, ignorant mind.”
A shadow of a smile curves over his mouth. “Was there something you wanted, or are you just naturally annoying?”
“There is definitely nothing here that I want.” A small laugh breaks free from her lips before she runs her eyes down his body and up again. “Or need.”
She pushes past him and toward me, throwing a wink in my direction.
His hardened eyes watch her disappear through the door. He doesn’t even look at me, just continues to stare at the door she passed through.
I quickly take the opening and scurry through after her.
I make it to class with seconds to spare. Now that I’m here, I’m debating turning right around and leaving. The stale smell of sweat, old blood, and fear sinks into my bones. Padded floors, mirrored walls, and punching bags surround me. Weapons of every kind line the walls. Faint torchlight flickers from the wall sconces, casting the entire sparring room in menacing shadows. If there was any course that intimidates me, it’s this one.
I rub my upper arms with a sinking feeling of trepidation.
Combat Practice.
First through fourth-years are gathered around the mats. They’re dressed in varying uniforms. Some are in their standard issue, while others don their fighting leathers. A few third and fourth-years stand off to the side, wrapping their knuckles as they talk. A pair of second-years are on the center mat, throwing lethal punches. Their heavy breathing and fists meeting flesh can be heard from where I stand.
I swallow hard.
My eyes dart around the room, looking for a familiar face. Misery loves company and all that. Unfortunately, I don’t recognize any faces. I don’t know anyone here.
I haven’t had time to compare schedules with Mallory or Finnley, and Ambrose is always MIA. It feels like I see him less now than I did in his first year at the academy, when we had literal cities separating us.
In fact, I haven’t seen him since before the blood initiation took place, so I haven’t been able to confirm my theory on who it was that held me while my world went dark. I’m so used to him catching me when I fall that I expect it to be him. I want it to be him. But I also don’t want to set myself up for disappointment.
I glance around, not entirely sure where I’m supposed to be. Torchlight burns in wrought-iron sconces, casting shadows across the faces of the fighters. Some look nervous, others look excited. It’s equal parts trial and lesson. The room thrums with barely constrained power.
Flickers of shadow emerge from the palm of a first-year standing close to me before he snuffs them out.
I step to the side a little.
