There’s a splinteringtwang,the blow shooting up my arms. But it’s not the force of the hit that makes me feel like my skull has been cleaved down the middle and wrenched open.
It’s the sound our weapons make when they clash.
Our swords aren’t made from a soft wood like the one I started training with five years ago—the one that struck with a dullthudand split after two months. We’ve since upgraded, again and again.
Theseare made from a petrified wood that’s hard and sharp and brutal.
Jarring.
I block a blow swinging for my abdomen, splitting the air with another sharp sound that strikes its own sort of match. It takes me three deep breaths to temper the hot surge threatening to flood my brain, and by the time I get there, my patience is nothing but a brittle twig ready to snap.
“Ihatethese new swords.” I remove my blindfold, squinting when the morning light takes a dig at me. “They’re loud and heav—”
A blow lands to the back of my knee, sending bolts of pain lancing up my leg.
I wail, buckling.
My hands plunge into the fluffy grass, absorbing the full brunt of my weight as my palm clips on a stone, bloodying the air.
I gulp breath, spine curled, body refusing to move. “That wa—wow ...” I inspect the fresh graze. “That was justmean.”
Baze lurks around me in tight, taunting circles, passing by the precipice, seemingly unperturbed that one wrong step could send him plummeting all the way to the bay. “You’re too easily distracted first thing in the morning.” He casts me a sideways glower that chafes my skin. “Up!”
I scramble to my feet, careful not to edge too close to the drop. Straight ahead, the castle sits atop the ridge—a robust, gothic cathedral drinking every drop of light that falls its way. My tower shoots up from the northern wing like a stalk reaching for the sun.
Stony Stem.
It’s partially decorated in dangling pops of purple from my wisteria vine, its long shadow cast left across Vateshram Forest.
“I’m notdistracted.”
Just tempted to toss this stupid sword into the bay.
I grip the pommel with both hands, ignoring my stinging palm, bouncing foot to foot to alleviate the little balls of energy bursting through my veins. “Come at me. Right now. I’ll prove just hownotdistracted I am.”
He leers at me through the gaps of his wind-tousled hair. “No, Laith. I told you we’re slowing it down this morning; forcing you to focus. Now, put the blindfold back on before I make you haul rocks.”
I roll my eyes and groan.
Slowing it down when all I want to do is the opposite.
Sometimes Exothryl wears off quickly, other times not. This morning, the effects are lingering—churning me into a storm of bridled chaos—and I’m stuck doingthis.
Slowing it down.
I pull the damn blindfold on, severing my sight of his menacing posture and bruising eyes. “I want my old sword back. I feel like I’ve been forced back to basics.”
“It’s only been a few months. Give yourself time to get used to the Petrified Pine. I actually prefer it.”
The hairs on my right arm prickle ...
Wood whistles through the air, and I bend to the left, dropping to a crouch and lashing my sword in a wide arc. In my mind’s eye, I picture him leaping back so I don’t slash his kneecaps.
“I’m happy for you,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “But I still want my old one back.”
It might have taken me a while to warm up to it at the start, but I grew fond of that thing—even went to the effort of painting vines around the pommel.
“No can do. Mine split, remember? That old sword of yours is too soft. My new one would shatter it in a single blow.”
