Page 89 of Ashen Wings

“I think you’re ready to spar,” Isra says, knocking me from myself.

“With blades?” I force my eyes back into focus. We’ve been up since dawn, both unable to find sleep. First breathwork, then a run around the grounds that left me gasping for air, and now he tosses me a roll of binding tape.

“I’ll go easy on you, don’t worry.” He nods. My lips spread into a grin. Finally, something useful after weeks of endless exercises.

“Well, that’s a mistake,” I rasp, winding the tape around my knuckles.

“We’ll see.” Isra draws a blunt training blade from the pile of weapons he’s carried on to the lawn. “Here, I’ll walk you through a few maneuvers first.” He tosses a sheathed weapon toward my boots.

A groan escapes me as he steps to the center of the grassy sparring ring. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?” Isra raises a brow.

“That this wouldn’t be an actual sparring match, Is. You’ll walk me through the motions and have me practice beginner movements until I want to rip my hair out.”

“Slow down, oh violent one. I know you’re desperate to get a blade in me after I knocked you on your ass the first time we met, but these are larger weapons, heavier swords.”

“Gods Isra, for combat training we haven’t seen even a shred of combat.” I roll my eyes like a child but settle back into my seat. “I’m listening.”

“Good girl.” He grins and raises his sword. “Now, with the heavier weapon, leverage is your best advantage. Work with the sword’s weight instead of fighting it. A lethal counter is a slow strong arc rather than short bursting jabs like you’re accustomed to.”

He prods a step forward and swipes the blade through the air. The whoosh of its edge bristles the strands that’ve fallen free from my plait. Isra exhales a short forceful burst of breath as he moves again, quicker than a lightning strike. His footwork is fluid and swift, so much so my eyes strain to keep up.

By the time he’s finished, I’m dazed. “Damn, okay. I haven’t learned whatever the hells that was.”

“Hate to say I told you so, but alas.” He shrugs and finds a seat beside me.

“Can I ask you a question before we start?” I glance toward him.

“That depends.” Sweat trails his jaw, even in the brisk morning temperatures as he pulls his knees to his chest. “If it’s about Jace’s past with Samkiel, the secret plan A, or his soulless form, no.”

I nudge his shoulder. “Fortunately for you, this time it’s not. You were wounded when we first met back at Fleetwing’s, but it didn’t impact your form at all. I sliced the fuck out of your arms and landed a blow to your cheek, yet you didn’t waver even the slightest. How do you manage the pain so well?”

“Breathwork…and lots of experience being stabbed.” He throws me a sheepish shrug. “When you’ve fought your whole life, the pain becomes a part of you.”

My heart cracks for the warrior seated beside me, now running his hands over the scars riddled up his forearms. Each one from a separate battle, every raised white ridge, a kill in his docket. Maybe Isra isn’t quite as whole as I thought.

“I’m no stranger to pain, but it still hurts.” The scars across my back tingle with the residual memory. My mother’s final breath. The slave sellers vicious whip cracking through the air. All of it haunts me still, even twenty years later.

“It’s easier to embrace your wounds than it is to run from them.”

“Gods Is, you speak like you’re some wise old sage.” I laugh, but his words ring through me like a bell.

“I can’t take the credit for that one as much as I want to.” He traces a scar on his thumb. “Jace told me that once—shit, it feels like a lifetime ago now. He wasn’t always this stoic, believe it or not.”

“What? You mean to tell me under all that silent brooding King Ashborne has a heart?”

Isra barks a laugh. “Broken it may be, but yes. He’s my oldest friend. Jace saved my life, and not just on the battlefield.”

I bite my lip, thoughts slipping to that place I try so hard to lock away.

“Now, do you want to discuss our fearless leader or should we fight?” The grin spreading over his lips is wicked, but the brightness flooding my chest is lighter than air.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” My brow arches. “Again?”

“In your dreams, little one.”

We find our positions in the sparring circle. I grit my teeth, arms straining against the unfamiliar weight of the training blade and widen my stance to compensate.