Knox is standing in the corner. Arms folded across his chest as he watches the scene unfold. The Commons scramble to follow orders. Even the two sergeants seem alarmed by my presence. I don’t teach lessons. My time is too valuable to be wasted training the Gifted, let alone the Commons.
They didn’t expect to see me here.
Ever since I was promoted to Commandant of the Forge, I’ve been busy overseeing the entire facility. Not to mention managing my own covert unit. It’s a lot of paperwork and less field work, which isn’t my idea of fun. If it were up to me, I would refuse the new title, but just like this foolish marriage scheme, it is another role I must undertake to improve my odds of being voted in as Supreme Director.
My gaze finds her immediately. Her hair is tied in a braid, bangs fluttering loosely above her emerald eyes. Her mouth is set in a grim line. She doesn’t look pleased to see me.
“Mercy Warrick,” I call.
She freezes, and I resist the urge to smile. It is going to be fun breaking her.
Murmurs ripple through the line. A Common being singled out is a rare occurrence.
Haven steps forward anyway. Her chin is raised high, and her back is ramrod straight.
“Today’s lesson,” I say calmly, “is response under threat.”
I could not care less about teaching the recruits. But this pretense requires a fair bit of acting.
I gesture to the rack of training weapons. “Choose.”
Her eyes flick over the options—batons, sabers, quarterstaffs, and blades. Her mouth turns in disappointment when she realizes there are no guns, which was foolish to expect. She reluctantly reaches for the baton. A smile ghosts across her lips as if she is picturing bludgeoning my head in.
How predictable.
I draw a long blade with a thin handle. Not a practice one, but the real thing. These aren’t used so early in their training. The sergeant stiffens. He opens his mouth to object. He thinks I plan to kill the girl, and I haven’t decided yet if I will.
“Take position,” I order.
Haven bends her knees, feet spread apart. I circle her slowly.
Her eyes are keen and calculated, cataloging my every movement. It isn’t the nervous stare of a new conscript thrown into a world they don’t understand.
“You’ve been trained,” I state.
Her grip tightens.
“My sister and I were both instructed by Lieutenant General Reed Sullivan,” she says.
“Interesting,” I muse. “So, your sister is an accomplished fighter, as well?”
“Yes,” she says quickly. “Better than me.”
“Perhaps, I shall test her skill,” I say offhandedly. “I will have to remember to throw a knife at her unsuspectingly and see how she reacts.”
She stills. I use the distraction to swing my blade down. Her baton clashes down on it, and the force of the impact rattles her small arms.
“You’re a weak, little thing, aren’t you?” I taunt.
Her jaw clenches.
“Strike,” I command.
She hesitates as if she doesn’t trust my direction. Too bad. I was giving her an opening. I attack instead. Steel flashes before it crashes down on her baton, scratching the rubber.
She barely manages to deflect the second impact before the blade cleaves her neck. The line of recruits gasp.
I force her backward across the field. She blocks, pivots, and counters, remaining on the defense, but never once striking first. She didn’t pick a weapon that could cut or harm. Unless she getsme flat on my back and uses it to crack my skull in, the weapon is useless. Perhaps that is what she is hoping for: pure luck.
