“If you hit me with your hands folded in like that, you’ll break your fingers,” he commented with a bored expression on his face.
Anger was slowly replacing the all-consuming fear in Lory’s stomach. Who did he think he was? She’d survived almost twenty years on the streets of Dunai. She’d fought other street rats and the Gargoyles and lived. She’d escaped every single time when she’d stolen from men much bigger and much stronger than she was. “I know how to throw a punch, thank you very much.”
Falcrest studied her with the patience of a man who’d seen it all and found her lacking. “Oh, I believe that without a doubt. I’m not here to assess your skill in combat, though. Thatpleasurebelongs to Hand Sil. I simply need to figure out what magical abilities slumber within you—and if you fail to develop any, I might need to take you back to the butcher’s block after all.” The lack of mocking when he spoke those last few words surprised Lory more than the slight crease between his brows as he swept his gaze over her once more. “Did you eat this morning?”
An image of Anees stabbing the two ashlings on the dais, one of them trying to flee his fate, flashed through Lory’s mind, and she swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “I don’t think any sane person would even consider taking a bite after what happened at breakfast?”
An eyebrow rose on Falcrest’s forehead, strands of dark, silken hair sliding into his face.
“Fuck—” she mouthed, studying his other eyebrow joining the first in a frown.
She was in trouble—so much trouble. If she didn’t watch it, she’d end up at the tip of his saber before she had a chance of figuring out whether she’d be stabbed for not being asmagicalas General Ycken had alluded to.
Falcrest folded his arms in front of his chest, the black of his shirt gobbling up the sunlight. “So, apart from not showing any signs of magic, you also don’t possess a kernel of manners to tame that rotten mouth of yours, do you?”
“Oh, my mouth is even better than my hands.”
It took Lory a moment to realize why Falcrest’s grin turned wicked, his eyes flicking to her mouth for a heartbeat.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she scrambled for words. “For fighting… I meant forfighting.” Lory had lived on the streets for so long she’d probably heard and used every filthy swearword in existence. By Eroth, she used to visit abrothelto hunt her victims, for crying out loud. Why would her cheeks heat at the way Falcrest was looking at her?
As if noticing exactly that himself, Falcrest’s expression iced over as he assessed her one more time, head to toe, with the calculated gaze of someone figuring out her weaknesses.
“I’m going to say this only once, Ashling Vednis: I don’t care how good your punch is or how sharp your tongue. At this academy, you are nothing more than a criminal who was given a chance to become a weapon for King Ulder. You fail to train, you die. You fail to produce magic, you die. You fail to obey orders, youdie.
“Others are here because they want to make a name for themselves, carry on their families’ tradition. But you arehere by a twist of fate, and if you get killed during training—or even between—no one will bat an eye.
“They will come for you when they figure it out, that you’re not one of their privileged club but someone without loyalties other than to herself.
“You having been conscripted to this place is an act of convenience, not of mercy. You fail to acknowledge the position you’re in, and you won’t survive long enough to make any friends.”
With every word, Lory’s stomach sank until it was all the way to the floor, spread out somewhere between the shards of glass and melting ice.
“Am I clear, Vednis?”
Lory swallowed, mouth too dry to answer.
Falcrest took a step closer. And another, the lines of his body tense as he sent her heart into a stutter with that piercing gaze of his, and growled, “Am I clear?”
On instinct, Lory’s chin dipped, her balled fists snapping up between them as if they’d provide a modicum of protection when there was no way she’d escape if he put his mind to destroying her.
Without warning, Falcrest turned on his heels and stalked away.
“You can show me another time what you can do with your hands, Gutter Gem,” he shot over his shoulder as he vanished through the door.
Seven
The sun stoodat its highest point when Lory learned the location of Ashthorn Academy.
She was filing into a slim hallway a few floors up from where training and classes usually took place, her fellow blue ashlings all brimming with excitement as they were allowed on a long balcony overlooking the royal residence and Dunai at its feet. On her left, Thal was making a joke about getting his tender skin burned in the baking sun, while on her right, Tabi was whispering with Jarek Grivor, a stocky, young man with harsh, golden features and a scar above his left brow.
Lory inhaled deeply, taking in the view of what used to be her home and hunting grounds.In the far south, she could even spot the lower buildings marking the outskirts of the city, where she’d hoped to sleep not even two weeks ago.
Two long weeks of watching her back and giving away nothing about her past. Thal and Tabi seemed to be fine with her avoidance of that topic, while Brycon was giving her suspicious glances whenever they found each other face-to-face. Out of the students she’d met on the first day, Ricca was the most suspicious, asking subtle questions about where she’d learned to fight or climb the way she did, as if she suspected her past was shady and was ready to call her out on it as soon as she got proof—perhaps even end her for being a stain on the academy’s name, who knew?
“Tell me what you see,” Captain Falcrest—who turned out to be not only a glorious pain in Lory’s ass but also the Veiled Hand at Ashthorn—prompted from the center of the other side of the group, his gaze on the quiet streets and sun-illuminated houses.
“King Ulder’s palace to the west,” Jarek answered, interrupting his conversation with Tabi only long enough to make an impression by being the first to respond. Points for effort if not for wits.
