Ezer was nothing to him. A new distraction, a fresh face. A test of the gods, perhaps, to remind him that someday, he would have to sacrifice what he loved most.
Unless there was nothing to live.
Nothing to give but his own heart in his hands.
His kingdom, his loyalty, was to the gods alone. And that was where he should place every private thought.
The next opponent entered. Two hits this time, barely even a shift to his position, and thenomageboy dropped his damned sword.
Arawn sighed, a cloud of his breath soaring away on the wind.
It reeked here.
It reeked of weakness.
Of fear.
Of death.
Perhaps part of that is coming from you,his conscience hissed at him. It often spoke from the depths of his mind, like a coiled-up snake just waiting to strike.You carry the scent of failure everywhere you go.
“Do that again,” Arawn warned the soldier, and pointed at the fallen blade, “And you’ll find yourself headless. If not by a shadow wolf, then certainly by a darksoul once they lay their claws upon you.”
“Yes, Sir,” the boy replied.
His face had gone green, but there was no time for pity.
So, the fighting went on.
Arawn threw himself into it with everything he had.
He fought until he lost himself in the motions.
Until he no longer saw Soraya’s face with every swing of his blade. He fought until his body grew weary, and then he foughtpastthat, too, for with every strike, the mourning lessened, or perhaps it disappeared, covered up by exhaustion.
He fought until he forgot about his scars and his sorrow.
Until Soraya’s faced switched with Ezer’s...her sharp edges and her quiet strength.
She’ll get herself killed,Arawn thought for the thousandth time, as another opponent left the clearing with their tail between their legs.And you do not care, Arawn. This is war.
“Sir. They’re ready for you.”
A voice called out to him, familiar and warm with the promise of laughter. Indriya...once his Third. Her braids were as pale as his, her black skin a beautiful contrast. And with her trademark snarl, sometimes, he swore even the war bears flinched when she was near.
“Not the greeting I was hoping for,” Arawn said. “And since when are you a messenger?”
“Since you nearly took off the head of the servant who just cameto fetch you five minutes ago,” Indriya said back, and shrugged. Arawn hadn’t even noticed. “Now take off the death glare and walk with me.”
He sighed aloud as he sheathed his sword, doing his best to hide the tremble in his fingertips. Gods, he was cold. He was tired, despite the need in his bones to keep fighting.
And Indriya knew it.
“You look exhausted,” she said, as she took up a steady pace beside him. They headed out of thenomagecamp and up the long steps to the Citadel, where the Masters were no doubt waiting for him to begin the night’s battle plan. “Youareexhausted.”
“I’m fine,” Arawn said. “I can fight for days, Indriya.”
She’d taken up a spot as First Rider...flying inhisplace, with new members inhisaerie. At least, until he gained his magic and his wings back.
