Page 141 of Harbinger

“This is a good one for you to start with. It will put less strain on your muscles while you’re building them.” He’s so close that his breath whispers over my ear.

Friends, Arden. Get it together. That’s the goal. Not a charity case. Or someone who always needs saving. And I’ll never achieve these goals if I can’t pay attention every time he touches me. How is he supposed to train me? With workbooks?

When he finally steps away, my knees buckle, but I gather myself together … until he takes the sword and hangs it up on the rack.

I frown. “I thought that was the right one for me.”

“It is.” A slow smile spreads across his face—the kind that reveals just how far I’m in over my head. “But training doesn’t start with swords.”

TWENTY-SIX

“Maybe we should skip to the killing part,” I say, my scowl deepening. Rumors must have spread about what happened to those men in the clearing. Not that I’m sorry about it. But half of Wolf’s Keep probably wants me dead, so learning how to handle a sword seems like it should move to the top of the training list.

But Bishop is already walking toward the courtyard, forcing me to run to match his long strides. He stops in a section partially sheltered from the wind by the astrolatory’s retaining wall and strips out of his coat. Despite the weather, his tunic is sleeveless, putting his corded biceps on full display along with the markings of his power. Vestiges. Proof that he’s killed other scions. A lot of them, from the looks of it. The silvery lines travel the full length of his left arm, intersecting in a brutal but somehow beautiful pattern that travels all the way to his knuckles. His right arm is half covered from his hand to just above his elbow.

“Have you—”

I only get a few words into my question before he cuts me off. “No more answers that you don’t earn.”

The words land like a gauntlet thrown at my feet.

Bishop thinks he knows how stubborn I am, but he’s about to discover a new definition of that word. Resolve hardens like steel in my chest.

But he tips his head in my direction. “You’ll probably want to lose that coat.”

“What?” My eyebrows shoot up. I glance around us like maybe I’ve had a blow to my head and we aren’t standing on the side of a mountain in early winter. Nope. Still here. “It’s freezing.”

“Suit yourself.” And then he sprints across the courtyard, continuing along the slight trail sloping up the mountain beyond the astrolatory.

“I guess we’re starting,” I grumble. Taking a deep breath, I follow. The path narrows as it climbs, loose rock skittering beneath me, my boots slipping with every stride. My calves start to burn almost instantly, a promise that the worst is yet to come.

I’ve nearly caught him when he turns and races back down, so gracefully that I consider catching up just to shove him off the side of the mountain. I force myself to continue to the same spot where he turned. By the time I reach it, my lungs are on fire, too.

“Downhill will be better,” I mutter to myself and follow him. But he’s already on his way back up. Sweat breaks over my forehead. This is why he took off his coat. I pause just long enough to shuck mine from my shoulders and toss it in the general direction of the courtyard. I start back up—just as the bastard flies down past me again. I’m panting when I reach the top, but the cold air feels good on my feverish skin.

If this is his way of showing me how out of shape I am, then … well played.

The air is too thin on the mountain, and by the fourth trip, I skid to a stop at the bottom and double over. Bishop is there a second later, a few strands of hair sticking to his forehead the only proof that he’s even exerted himself. He studies me, frowning slightly like I’ve failed the first assessment. “Take your time. This isn’t a race. If—”

But I’m already starting back up. If he does it, I will, too. It’s the only way that I’ll be able to hold my own.

By the seventh lap, my legs are wobbling. Then they start to tingle. When I reach the top for the eighth time, I’m not sure they belong to me at all. Do I even have legs?

Bishop, who is somewhere between four and one million laps ahead of me, stops again. “Sit,” he orders.

This time, I listen, but only because my legs are about to give out regardless. At least when I crumple onto the rocky soil, it seems like I’m doing it on purpose.

“You brought me all the way up here to run? Are you serious?” I ask in bursts, chest heaving in time with my pounding heart. “When do we start training?”

He looms over me, his silver-blond hair haloed by the late-morning sun. He’s not even breathing hard. “I brought you all the way here to see how much you’d argue before you start listening.”

I stare at him. “You said you would teach me how to fight.”

Not try to kill me with oxygen deprivation.

“I said I would train you,” he corrects me. “Fighting comes later—if you don’t give up.” But he has the decency to wait until I’ve caught my breath before he helps me stand.

I dust gravelly dirt off my pants, not daring to look at the path back to the courtyard. Because even the descent feels impossible now. Bishop starts down the hill, moving at a slightly slower pace, which I’m sure has everything to do with me, because he’s barely broken a sweat.