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“A what?”
“Is it loaded and dangerous?”
“In your hands, yes.”
I give him a double-take. “Only in my hands?”
“It’s your weapon.”
“Why didn’t I get a lesson on weapons before all this?”
“That’s basic, pre-academy stuff.”
I frown. “Unless it was taught in preschool, I probably didn’t learn it!”
“Noted.” His expression tenses.
“Can I put it back now, and pick up a textbook instead?”
He shakes his head. “No, you need to bond with it and spend some time practicing.”
“Then how about you fill me in on what I missed as I bond with this piece of metal?”
A zap runs down my arm.
“Ow!” I jump back but the trident doesn’t leave my hand.
Someone snickers.
Mr. Brant inches closer. “You’ll want to respect your weapon. I don’t think it likes being called a piece of metal.”
I move the trident to my other hand and rub my sore one on my side. “So I noticed.”
“Practice—but don’t aim it at anyone. It’s not a toy.”
“I figured that out already.” I study the weapon and move around the room, holding it in different positions. It feels like it belongs in my hands, and when I hold it in front of me, a strange energy runs through it, different from when I aim it at the walls. Not that anything actually happens when I aim it at the walls. Seems like everyone’s freaking out over nothing, if you ask me.
After what has to be a half hour, I turn back to Mr. Brant. “Is that enough for the day?”
“How do you feel?”
“Fine.”
“I mean, are you ready to spar?”
My stomach drops. “You mean like a match? Actual fighting?”
He nods. “Precisely.”
“If that’s what it’ll take for you to let me go back to my dorm.”
“Yes, you’ll be free to go after you spar.”
“Bring it on. Who am I fighting?”
He glances toward the doorway. The group watching has tripled in size, and they move apart, leaving a path.
My mind races. Is he making me challenge the toughest teacher? Someone bigger than him?
