“That one doesn’t count. Do it again,” he demanded, and I clenched my jaw.
Rolling my eyes would only result in one hundred more repetitions. I’d learned that ninety-nine repetitions ago, when he’d said the same words on what should have been my final kick and I hadn’t been smart enough to withhold a retort.
Fakemagvisor not, Callen was treating me as he would any other soldier, and Harthon wasn’t close by to make him stop. After a grueling hour of balance exercises, we’d worked on kicking and punching techniques before beginning the endless rounds of repetitions. Though truth be told, no matter how deeply I despised every order that came from Callen’s mouth, I didn’t want training to be easy. If it was, I’d never improve.
Still, he was high on a power trip, and it was infuriating.
Settling back into the split stance, I bent my standing leg for stability and jabbed out with the ball of my foot. Dust puffed in a cloud, and Callen nodded, adjusting the bag higher.
“Good. Right-handed jabs, now. Drive through your legs. Use your hips.”
Filling my lungs, I began the repetitions, once again grateful that we were in the privacy of my room. The training grounds were far too public for my ugly form, and nothing shoutedI’m actually not a powerful being at alllike punching a stuffed bag with shaking arms and sweat rolling down your face.
“How long.”Punch.“Did it take.”Punch.“For you to.”Punch.“Get good at fighting?”
“Years,” he answered, watching my form like a hawk.
“That’s not.”Punch.“Encouraging.”Punch.“At all.”
He frowned. “Don’t get lazy. Power through your legs. Your arms can’t do much, not until you’ve perfected your striking technique.”
“My arms aren’t that weak,” I protested, even as I forced my legs to work with my next strike.
“They also aren’t that strong compared to full-grown men.”
Okay, that was true.
“And as far as getting good at fighting goes, it took me years because I didn’t have the incredible instructor that you have.”
“So incredible.” The sarcasm was lost in a wheeze, and I was too out of breath to speak again until I finished.
“Water time,” Callen informed me, and I gratefully plopped onto a chair, drinking straight from the pitcher.
Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I asked, “How long have you been with Harthon?” All I’d learned was that Callen was part of Harthon’s former mercenary group, but if I was to be stuck with them until I attempted escape again, I may as well know them.
He glanced at the ceiling, silently counting. “Sixyears or so.”
“Were you his third-in-command for all six of those years?”
Callen snorted, taking a seat opposite me. “Definitely not. Harthon is very cautious about who he lets into his circle. Always has been.”
Given the thought behind all of his decisions, I could see that. “How did you meet?”
“Let’s just say that I tried to kill him, and then we joined together against a common enemy.” He laughed, glancing at the far wall like he was reminiscing it in his head.
My eyes bugged. “I’m sorry, what?”
“That’s the story.”
Callen had tried to kill Harthon, and he still lived. Skies, they werefriends.In what world was that even a possibility?
“How in the Domus did you manage that?”
Callen sobered. “The situation was complicated. Uniting was the best way to achieve both of our ends. Then we became friends.”
“Just like that,” I pondered, disbelieving.
His lips compressed. “Yep.”
