Vilder raises his brows. “Daggers?”
I nod. Although I have a remarkable talent with the daggers—Calix has said so himself—I have no idea how to handle a sword or a quarter staff.
Calix hands us a set of daggers each, and Vilder and I turn to face each other. He’s at least two heads taller than me, but I give him a cocky smile nonetheless. “Ready to have your ass whupped?”
He graces me with one of his rare smiles, showing off his dimples. “We’ll see.”
Vilder’s eyes fill with determination as he lunges forward, his long limbs giving him a clear advantage, but I manage to dodge his attack.
“Care to tell me the real reason you are asking about Anam’gate?” he says as we circle each other.
I pretend I’m considering telling him something, then surprise him by spinning forward and swiping his feet out from underneath him. My muscles coil, and I’m ready to jump him, but he does a back roll and is on his feet before I’ve had time to blink. He’sso fast.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he says.
Soon, beads of sweat are trickling down my neck, mingling with the dirt and thin layer of dust now covering me. Vilder’s strength and size give him a clear advantage—not to mention his ridiculous reflexes—but somehow, I manage to deflect most of his attacks with agility and precision.
It’s similar to dancing. It flows easily. Effortlessly. And I enjoy it. To actually get to move and be free, to be allowed to wield a weapon—it sends a thrill through my body.
I wipe the sweat dripping down my forehead and lock eyes with Vilder, who serves me a cocky smirk. He’s definitively on the offensive today, yet I know he’s going easy on me. No one beats Vilder.
I cough as I inhale a handful of the dust swirling in the wake of our battle dance. And although it causes only a fraction of hesitation, it’s all he needs. With lightning speed, Vilder lunges, his dagger grazing my arm, drawing blood.
“Yes!” He pumps his fist in the air, a triumphant shout escaping his lips. “I won.”
Why he’s so happy beating me, I don’t know. I’m sure he could finish me before I’ve even blinked if he so wished.
We stare at each other, chests heaving, sweat dripping from our brows. The sparring has given me a welcome respite from my churning thoughts, and I grin back at him.
Making my way to one of the white stone benches surrounding the sparring ground, I collapse onto it.
“Heal her,” Calix says to Vilder with a nod toward me, and Vilder walks over to kneel next to me.
His brow furrows in concentration. The healing doesn’t come as naturally for him as it does Seniia, but it’s part of his training nonetheless. His thumb glides across the wound, and it disappears.
“You’ve gotten so much better,” I say, smiling at him.
He says nothing, but from his small smile, I can tell he’s pleased with his progress.
“The ones on pilgrimage to Anam’gate follow the soul star of Mah,” he says without looking at me. “She’s the first soul star to rise in the sky every night.” He lifts his gaze, his eyes, a deep shade of russet, locking with mine. “You know, just in case you were wondering.”
I drink from the waterskin, then hand it to him. “You won’t try to stop me?”
He shakes his head. “No. I know firsthand what it feels like to have your free will taken from you.”
I chew on the piece of bread I brought for breakfast, studying his face. I’ve noticed it before, the way he understands me in a way most others don’t. I’ve suspected there's a reason, but he's never told mewhy. Somehow, I cannot even begin to imagine anyone being capable of holding Vilder captive.
“What happened?”
His shoulders slump, his body deflating as if he wants to disappear.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to share. I understand.”
“I was born in Arià, the westernmost floating island of the Western Plains. It’s a sacred island, and only the most skilled singers are allowed to reside there.” His eyes remains focused on a spot on the ground. “This is also where you will find the Temple of Truth.” His sigh, long and heavy, speaks volumes.
This is not the Vilder I know. How much pain does he carry below the surface, hidden beneath the practiced calm of his features? I wait for him to change the topic, but to my surprise, he starts sharing.
“My parents are both olams, master storytellers—the greatest to have existed since the Darkening. Their level of skill when listening to the wind is almost unheard of. When I was born under a full Celestial Moon, I instantly became a huge disappointment to them. I was moonborn. I would wield elen, become a C’elen one day. My home would be in Caelen, not Arià. I would rely on magic and not the arts. So they decided to put a brace on me and train me. Never mind that there was no way I could listen to the wind while wearing a brace, they could still fill my head with knowledge. It was better than the shame they would face if it was known that the two greatest singers in the Western Plains had birthed a moonborn. So, I wore it every day of my life, never really knowing what it did to me. They raised me in a way that led me to believe it was normal: the way I had to obey them, the way I could not leave the island of Arià. Then, right before I turned twenty-one, Gray showed up, first once, then her visits became more frequent...” He lets out a low, humorless laugh. “I lived in a gilded cage.”
