Whatever his secrets are, they’re eating him alive.
But for now, I have electricity to control and a tournament to survive. Plus, despite everything, I trust Logan implicitly.
“Ready,” I say, and then I take a deep breath and follow him down into the darkness.
JADE
My boots slipon loose gravel as I descend into the Void Pit, and I have to catch myself against the rough stone wall to keep from falling.
Great start, Jade. Really showing off those elite athletic skills.
Logan moves with the fluid grace of someone who’s done this a thousand times, barely disturbing the dust.
Of course he does. Does the man ever do anything without looking annoyingly perfect?
The pit drops into a circular arena maybe seventy feet across and twice as deep. The further down we go, the more my magic is buried, until it’s gone altogether. And the Void Pit feels different at night, with only the stars providing dim light overhead. Like being trapped at the bottom of a giant well, which is exactly the kind of claustrophobic nightmare I didn’t need on top of everything else that’s happened these past few weeks.
“Attack me,” Logan says without preamble.
I blink. “What?”
“Attack me.” He spreads his arms wide. “Use your dagger. Try to hit me.”
“I don’t want to?—“
“And that’s your first problem.” His voice sharpens. “In the tournament, hesitation will be what takes you down. Now, stop stalling and attack me.”
I narrow my eyes at him, tighten my grip on my dagger, and lunge.
He sidesteps easily, not even bothering to block, and I stumble past him like a drunk first-year at a Forge Night party.
“Again.”
I try to be sneakier, feinting left before going right. He still dodges like I’m moving in slow motion, but this time I stay on my feet, which honestly feels like a major accomplishment.
“You’re telegraphing every move.” He circles me, forcing me to turn to keep him in sight. “Your shoulders tense before you strike. Your eyes look where you’re aiming. Even your breathing changes.”
“Sorry I’m not a trained assassin,” I mutter, adjusting my grip on the dagger.
He flinches for a second, as if I struck him with my words. But only for a second.
“Here.” He moves behind me, his hands settling on my hips, and suddenly I forget how to breathe. “Wider stance. Bend your knees more.”
His voice is all business, but his fingers flex against my hips once before going still. Like he’s fighting the same memories I am. It’s probably a good thing my magic is suppressed, because I can feel phantom bits of it crackling along my skin, as if my body is trying to respond to him even without access to its electricity.
“Relax your shoulders.” He comes back around to face me, and his hands slide up to adjust my arms, fixing my grip on the dagger. “You’re holding it like a tennis racket.”
“Maybe because that’s the only thing I know how to hold,” I say through gritted teeth.
His eyes darken, his pupils dilating, but he refocuses in a second. “When you strike, rotate from your core. Use your whole body, not just your arm.”
We spend the next twenty minutes on basic stances and strikes. My footwork is clumsy, my attacks predictable, and my defenses nonexistent. Every correction requires him to touch me—adjusting my stance, fixing my grip, guiding my movements. And every touch feels like torture, because I know he’s going to pull away afterward. He always pulls away.
“Again,” he says after I botch a simple parry.
“This is pointless.” I huff in frustration, but reset my stance anyway.
He comes at me with deliberate slowness, giving me plenty of time to react. I bring my dagger up to block, but my angle is wrong. His blade slides past my defense and stops an inch from my ribs.
