Didn’t they understand this was life or death?
That joining the rebellion wasn’t just the ‘cool’ thing to do—that we actually had a cause to fight for andwouldhave to fight for it? That there was no way we were getting out of this without bloodshed and death? That the likelihoodanyof them survived in their unAwakened state was slim to none?
Even the beads in my hair clinked angrily as I stalked toward the group of laughing teenagers as they tried, and failed, to spar with each other.
We were working on physical combat today—something that the Mages and Vessels at the Academy taught for use only in extremely dire circumstances. Hand-to-hand combat and weapons training were something that the magical, in their selfish and elitist way, refused to train extensively. Focusing instead on using their magic for both defense and attack.
But what happened when their crystals ran out or their Vessel was killed?
The Warlord’s army used its sheer size to cover for these weak points, but that was something our smaller force couldn’t rely on.
We had to be better, smarter, if we were to win this war.
So, we trained in all forms of combat—magical and otherwise—especially since many of our recruits were well below the age to Awaken. A majority of those that remained were Mages with lower power levels or Vessels without access to any magic.
We’d lost two of our more powerful Mages—an Earth and Pain Mage—when the Matriarch sent Torin to Isrun to fetch the Bondsmith’s daughter. That mission, in my eyes, was a complete failure. Not only did we fail to retrieve the girl, but we lost many—too many—because of the Warlord’s second-in-command, a powerful Destruction Mage.
After that defeat, I’d subtly increased the training our recruits received, and for the most part, they’d taken to it with gratitude and gusto.
Except for these idiots, apparently.
My approach to their small group was silent as I traversed the flattened grass, eyes focused on their movements. On their laughter.
The sound grated.
Why should they laugh?
Other groups paused their practice to bow in deference to me as I passed. The action was something I paid little attention to—I had no use for deference. I’d spent my whole life, up until I found the Matriarch, in constant supplication to another, and I hated when others now put me in a position of higher power.
The sounds of frivolity grew louder the closer I got to the group, and I noticed quickly that the grappling holds everyone was supposed to be practicing were quickly turning into something sexual.
There was too much flirting and not enough fighting happening.
They weren’t even sweating. No mud marred their pants and tunics, and their cheeks were pink from the cold rather than exertion.
“Anders, that’s too tight!” A girl with braided blonde pigtails giggled as one of the boys put her in a light headlock.
“I thought you liked it like this? A little rough?” The boy—Anders—whispered coyly into her ear, loud enough for their friends and me to hear. The group laughed as the girl giggled and pushed her ass back into Anders’ crotch. He grunted low before grasping her lower belly and bringing it snug against his lower half.
“Maybe we can practice these moves later? When it’s dark and we’re alone?”
The girl let out a breathless moan, and I took that moment to make my appearance known. I’d heard enough.
“Is this what you think training is supposed to look like?” I called, my voice deceptively even. The group of teenagers froze as the training yard went silent.
My voice had that effect, whether I liked it or not. When I spoke, people listened. When I moved, people reacted.
Torin said it was part of leadership.
I hated it.
Anders quickly pushed the girl away from his body, and she stumbled a few steps before catching herself. The four friends stood together, none of them choosing to meet my gaze head-on.
Spineless.
“Well?” I asked again, tightening my grip on my spear.
“We were practicing chokeholds like you instructed, General,” the other girl—a small thing with mousy-brown hair—said quietly, eyes still downcast.
