My blades were a part of me, and together, we made a weapon. The hilts were warm on my skin. The leather was worn and smooth against my calloused palms, perfectly melding with my hands and creating an unrippled extension of my arms.
Frigid air cut across my cheeks as it whipped off the Albyrn Mountains and dove into the small valley we sparred in. The training facility was well-kept by the late Dark King Daimos. Its rings and stations were now occupied by liberated slaves and the more agreeable Nivisian warriors.
After Dark King Daimos’s death, Selvina had taken over the leadership of Nivis. Half of the dark king’s soldiers rebelled, but with three Bellators on hand, the uprising was squashed quickly, and the ice queen didn’t fuck around.
Selvina had executed two hundred of them.
The remainder had submitted, many of them surprisingly subservient. The captains were now training ex-slaves and preparing them for battle.
Ursa’s blade angled up, and she grimaced. Her golden brows pinched as she prepared to take me off guard. My blades caught hers, and I twisted, ripping the hilt free from her hand.
The line of silver cut across the blue sky as she let out an exhausted curse. Her hands dropped to her knees as she bent over and caught her breath.
“Your frown gave you away,” I explained as I stepped away and retrieved her blade. Drips of sweat trickled down her temples, despite the relentless wind. “Keep your face relaxed.”
Ursa kept her face to the ground as she nodded her head. Her back bobbed as she sucked down the air. I pulled a water skin free and handed it to her.
“That’s enough for today,” I declared after taking a swig of my own.
She straightened and cracked her neck before nodding. I kept my gaze on her sea blue eyes, resisting the urge to look at the thick scar on her neck from the collar she wore through slavery. Lyvia hated when people stared at her scar, so it felt best to avoid looking at her cousin’s.
Ursa was strong to endure over twenty years of slavery at the hands of the psychotic elf that ruled these lands—at the hands of the Tauruk… My appreciation for the elf had grown since spending more time with her. She’d asked me to train her, to prepare her. And unlike Selvina, Ursa preferred blades to ball gowns.
Though years of slavery had left its mark on her, Selvina had healed Ursa’s injuries. A bad ankle, a misaligned back, and various other injuries left by her previous owner. But haunted memories lingered in her eyes most days.
A low, guttural growl resonated across the sparring yard, and I snapped my head around as two massive white forms clomped through the thick snow.
Nivis bears.
Fascinating.
I cocked my head as Ursa turned toward the bear in the front, led by one of her chosen captains. The bear’s giant head swung in her direction. A bridle crafted of dark leather and bright silver glinted in the sunlight as it nearly knocked her over.
She caught her footing and gave the bear a shove back before chuckling.
“They don’t know their strength,” she explained as I approached.
The bear turned a giant black nose toward me before huffing in my face. I grimaced, wiping away the spray of bear snot.
Ursa slipped a booted foot into the stirrup of the saddle and swung her leg over. The bear lifted the side of its black lip, flashing a sharp canine when I didn’t take a step back.
“Knock it off,” Ursa chided, tugging on the reins. The bear took a reluctant step back, leaving a platter-sized print in the wet snow. “Sorry,” she murmured.
“At least you don’t have to fly,” I replied as Ursa adjusted her seat and prepared to leave. A wave of indignation rippled down my bond with Aquila from where he soared.
No offense, I murmured to the ancient bird.
You couldn’t ask for a more noble or stable flier, Aquila replied, his deep voice wrapping around my mind like a warm embrace.You simply have a weak stomach.
Did Kyson put up with your quips?I asked.
Kyson didn’t leave the contents of his dinner on my wings. I can still smell last week’s fish,he retorted.
Poor bird got his fancy feathers dirty, I replied.
I seem to recall requesting you not to call mebird, Nerissa Ravindra, he muttered, and I swore I could feel him puff up in response.
I’m sorry, I finally said, smirking at the use of my full name.
