Page 62 of Wings of Destruction

Astrid comes up with her eyes glowing and buries the tip of the staff in my kidney this time. “You’re not paying attention, Kieran.”

She digs in extra hard like a reprimand.

“How do you expect me to help you when your thoughts are miles away?”

I grin wider because it pisses her off. “You’re all I think about, Astrid. Truly devastating for my concentration.”

She scoffs like the thought churns her stomach. “Please. You’re disgusting.”

And for extra measure, she pulls back to whack the wood to the underside of my chin. My teeth clack together hard.

I swallow over the flinch and push the pain aside. No apologies.

Instead, I grab the staff out of her hand and yank. She’s too strong to let go but the move brings her closer and I kick out with my left leg and hit her knee.

Astrid buckles with hardly a yelp of surprise then spins on her knees to rise.

She’s aiming low when someone yells for me.

“Kieran Ryson.”

Headmistress Yasmine Harbi hardly needs to yell.

Her presence sends the rest of the room into frigid silence, the pairs around us stilling mid maneuver to watch her. Harbi floats on unseen feet and says nothing else. It takes a crook of a finger in my direction to get me to move.

She grips her own staff in her left hand, a feature she’s rarely seen without, carved from ash with a tower of onyx crystal at the tip.

“Blast, you’re in trouble,” Astrid mutters under her breath.

“I just wish I knew what I did,” I whisper.

Despite Harbi’s years at the helm of the academy, her hair is still the black of a raven’s wing and the lines fanning out from her eyes speak of knowledge and wisdom gained rather than old age.

Hard eyes glitter and seem to ask what’s taking you so long?

My stomach goes hot and tight and the ache in my kidneys and chin is forgotten. Whatever this is, it’s nothing good.

Mozi rumbles in my head, aware but quiet. Listening.

Headmistress Harbi waits from her perch near the door until I’m close enough to see the glimmer of something unnamable in her ocean-blue eyes. Her lips thin as she looks at me and she turns on her heels, the fabric of her gown fluttering in her wake.

I throw back my shoulders and follow. She’s quiet but clearly upset about something.

Harbi is rumored to have been quite the warrior in her day. What does she see when she looks out at the next generation of fighters? Weaklings, likely. Students who won’t make it to graduation without a stern and severe guiding hand.

I trail her through the halls away from the gym and into a small parlor off the main corridor. It’s not her office. Why?

Why here? She stops beside the open door and flicks her head toward the room.

Bodies fill the meeting room and Tristan takes up the most oxygen with his big head. He glances in my direction before scoffing and giving me the cold shoulder. Several other professors linger around the periphery of the parlor, on their feet, snapping to attention at Harbi’s arrival.

“Well,” Harbi begins, drawing the door shut behind her. “Now we’re all here.”

Annoyance flashes in Tristan’s eyes. “Was there any particular reason to pull him out of class?”

Harbi holds her own and despite the vast differences in their height, she somehow manages to stare at Tristan like he’s the short one. “The General insists that debriefing sessions be included as part of your education. Yes, his son needs to be present.”

“You’re to listen, and not speak,” Tristan finishes.