I roll my lips together to keep myself from smiling. Pathetic as it is, that small bit of pride I hear in her voice is enough to ward away the cold from the storm.
With an exhale, she palms the other dagger strapped to her thigh and slides it free of its sheath. It’s curved, unlike any blade I’ve ever seen, but held in her hand it’s just a natural extension ofher. “If time is of the essence, then we certainly shouldn’t waste it. Get your blade.”
I turn and climb back up to the platform, releasing my trapped smile at the slight emphasis she uses on the wordyour.
Chapter Sixty-Seven: Aria
Mylaisrelentlessinher pursuit to show me just how easily she cannot only best me in a fight but outrightkillme. Not that I had any doubts, but the soreness in my back and hips just adds proof where none was needed. If this is her getting payback for using my song on her, then I suppose it is deserved.
Rain still blankets the beach in harrowing sheets, its noise louder than the angry crashing of the waves at the shoreline, the tide moving in closer to the rocks inside the cavern.
“Move, Aria. We need to keep our muscles warm,” she chides from above me, my breaths heaving while I stare up at the now darkened rocky ceiling above us after a particularly nasty takedown.
“Just. One. Minute.” I gasp for breath between each word, dagger still clutched in one hand while my other rests limply on my chest.
“In a fight, you will not get a minute to rest. You’ll have to push yourself to give everything that you have, and sometimes, you’ll be asked to give even more.”
I sit up, cold stone biting into my thighs as the tunic rises to my hips. “You speak as if you’ve experienced it.”
She doesn’t answer, instead curling her fingers as she beckons me forward. “Up.”
I groan as I stand, pulling my thick curls away from my face and letting them tumble down my back. Myla readies her stance, bending her knees slightly as she holds both arms up, one hand clutching the hilt of that strange blade.
“Are the initials on the hilt of my dagger your father’s?” I avoid sayingking, as the question already seems like one she won’t answer.
She steps to the side, and I mirror the movement, stepping into a puddle made from a leak in the ceiling. At least Myla’s glare has lessened from murderous to disdainful. “How about if you can draw blood from me before our lesson is up, I’ll tell you?”
Frustration surges at how every interaction has to be some sort of deal, as if the act of giving basic information costs Myla something beyond just engaging in conversation. I’m too exhausted to pry anything out of her, so I agree, and we continue sparring. Half an hour later, I’m no closer to her answering the question. Sweat beads at my temples despite the cold, and when Myla lunges forward, I throw up my arm at the last minute, ourblades clashing. I hiss out a short breath as pain flares. I must have caught the tip of her dagger.
“Why did you hesitate?” she asks, standing to her full height and dropping her guard.
I follow suit, cradling my arm to my chest while I inspect the wound. “I was running through the blocks you taught me earlier and panicked. I didn’t want to accidentally stab you.”
She blinks and cocks her head. “I thought the entire point of this was to try and draw blood from me.”
“Well not theentirepoint,” I counter, grateful to find that the small nick on my arm has already stopped bleeding. “That would be defending myself. But if I draw your blood, Myla, I want to do it because I’m actually good enough to catch you off-guard.” Using the edge of my tunic, I dab the small drip of blood away, only noticing that Myla hasn’t answered when the howling of the storm lingers for too long. Lifting my gaze, I find hers already on me, scrutinizing me in a way that strips me bare. On the surface, her face is set in the same cold rigidity, but beneath it, just barely noticeable, is a warmth that forces a knot in my throat. “What?”
“You can’t stop to think,” she says, her voice rough as she lifts her weapon again and bends her knees. She jerks her chin towards me in a command to get into position. “If you do, you’ll be dead before your next breath. You need to practice so that these movements become instinctual, especially with how differently they’ll feel beneath the surface.”
I nod, inhaling deeply as I watch her. Myla’s movements are quick, no preemptive thought given. Just fluidity that speaks to the years of practice she’s had. Why would a princess in a kingdom with dragons behind the protection of the Spellneedto be so well-versed in battle? Do the fae know that mages can pass through the Spell unharmed? Does she know about Rhea, and her ability tohealothers from the effects of the Spell?
Myla strikes, her movements quick as she attacks. My muscles are fatigued, but I manage to block every one of her attempts. “Good,” she says, swiping again. I jump back and smack into the wall. Myla closes in, and our arms cross, blades singing as they meet. She leans her weight towards me, a small quirk to her lips. “Seems I’ve got you cornered.”
I reach with my other hand and curl my fingers around her wrist. “You once said that a desperate person is the most dangerous, because they are willing to do whatever it takes to win.”
Myla nods. “I did, because it’s true.”
I swallow, and her eyes dip down for a moment before they draw back up. “My reason for wanting you to teach me how to fight was born from watching a friend die so that I could live, and it grew into something powerful when I learned someone I love needs my help to stay safe.”
“Your sister?” she guesses. I’m confused how she would know about Lyre until I remember letting it slip while she was under my song.
“Yes. I have always lived in fear, from the moment I understood what the emotion meant. I’ve been desperate for a long,longtime, but I didn’t have the tools to act. I didn’t realize how I could weaponize that desperation. Until now.” I hold Myla’s gaze, one of her brows arching before it abruptly halts and she grunts out in pain. “Sorry,” I say with a wince as my talon pierces her wrist.
“Fuckingstars,” Myla grumbles, watching as my talon slowly retreats. She steps back and pulls the sleeve of her black shirt up, revealing only one small mark that has split the skin. “Surprising creature,” she murmurs under her breath, sheathing her dagger at her thigh and pulling her sleeve down.
I smile as I roll the dagger in my hand until the initials are facing her.
“Who is L.V.?” I ask.
