‘Who cares what other people do? Give it a name.’
I racked my brain, but nothing sprang to mind. ‘What’s yours called?’
‘Soulkiller,’ he replied.
‘Oh, lovely,’ I said dryly. ‘Were Spiritbreaker and Dreamcrusher already taken?’
This made him laugh. ‘Precisely. Now, go on.’
I looked down at the dagger in my hands. ‘Silverclaw,’ I decided.
Fox nodded approvingly. ‘Nice choice. A little on the nose, perhaps, but I like it.’
During the last few lessons, he created a kind of assault course for me to practise on. I’d sever vines that sprang out at me, swerve away from moving branches, and leap over large stones that rolled across the forest floor. He even scored the outline of a body into the trunk of a tree, marking the places where I would find the vital organs.
This evening, as I retrieve my dagger from Cedar’s saddle, I’m surprised to see Fox pull out his own.
‘What’re you doing?’ I ask warily.
‘What does it look like? You said yesterday you wanted a real opponent. Well, today is your lucky day.’
My stomach clenches nervously. I may have said it, but now, when actually faced with the prospect …
Fox smirks, flexing his shoulder. His cut has long since scarred over – one of the many advantages of being Etheri, who heal in a mere fraction of the time it would take the Fidra – but he seems to enjoy reminding me that I was the one who inflicted it. I tell myself he deserved it for goading me into freezing half the forest. Yet this does nothing to ease the disquiet I feel when I recall his insinuation that he and I are more alike than I care to admit.
‘What’re we waiting for?’ I say, tugging at the collar of my borrowed shirt, which I still insist on wearing back to front. ‘Shall we begin?’
‘Not yet.’ Fox angles his head as he takes me in, his eyes raking over my body with such unabashed scrutiny that I almost blush. ‘Come here,’ he says softly.
My insides turn to vines, twisting and coiling around themselves. ‘Why?’
‘Just come here.’
I know he’s not going to hurt me. So why am I hesitating?
Green eyes gleam with amusement. ‘Scared, Storm Weaver?’
Yes.
‘No,’ I scoff.
I walk cautiously towards him, wondering if perhaps this is a trick – some kind of lesson about not trusting your opponent. When I reach him, I square my shoulders and meet his gaze. For a moment he is perfectly still. Then he raises his dagger and slashes it through the air so fast I don’t even have time to scream before it meets its mark.
Fox dangles the severed collar of my shirt in front of my nose. ‘Better?’
‘Better?’ I repeat. ‘You almost slit my throat!’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Don’t be so dramatic. But if that had been my intention, you’d currently be choking on your own blood. Your reflexes are sloppy at best.’
Much to my annoyance, I find that the shirt does in fact feel better. The new neckline is still modest, cut to just below my collarbones, yet far more comfortable.
Scowling, I follow Fox out of the treeline and over to the Creek, where we take up our positions upon the grassy bank. We start off slowly, with him teaching me how to block.
‘It depends on the angle of the blade,’ he tells me, taking hold of my forearm and positioning it in front of my face. Like his shoulder, my arm has also healed, the snake bite reduced to nothing more than a small purple welt. It’s a miracle the venom didn’t kill me. Though I suppose I have Fox to thank for that.
‘Again,’ he says, and our daggers clash loudly as they slide together.
This goes on for some time, until my wrist is aching and beads of sweat begin to trickle down my back. It was strange at first, fighting without my water gifts, but I was forced to admit, grudgingly, that Fox was right, and not just about passing as Fidra but about being more cautious with my magic. I still can’t wrap my head round what happened that day in the forest. The power humming through my veins had felt so … eager. Soalive.
