I open my mouth to insult him, before he cuts me off.
“Never mind, I don’t care for your little crush,” Ender says dismissively. “Your sister wishes to see you, and I think it would do you well to spend some time in her presence. Perhaps, her good behavior will rub off on you.”
“I am allowed to visit her?” I ask suspiciously.
It seems too good to be true. I don’t know why he would allow it after I insulted him, but I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“Do you mean it?” I ask.
“That depends on you,” he says.
My shoulders drop. Of course, he wouldn’t be so gracious; this is just another one of his games.
He nods to the training floor, already walking ahead. We’re in the indoor training hall today. It rained last night, and the mud was too thick and mucky to train outdoors.
Steel beams crisscross along the ceiling, where the light fixtures dangle, crawling down like spiders on cobwebs. The floors are rusty and scarred from years of boots and blades, and the air is stale with the smell of sweat.
“Beat me, and you can see her tonight.”
“I can?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
I get to see Mercyandkick his ass. Sounds like a dream to me.
“Yes.”
The concrete is smooth beneath my boots. Every eye in the room tracks our move.
It has been a full week since Ender last challenged me. It’s quite easy to see that he has it out for me, and I’m not certain why. At first, I assumed it was because he and my sister weren’t getting along, but now I wonder if he is just a sadist who enjoys tormenting people.
The doors are open, and a few sergeants trickle inside, curious about his arrival.
They’ve heard of Ender Vale, but few have ever seen him in action. From what Sora says, he is too high up to spend time with the Gifted, let alone indulge the Commons, which means he’s breaking routine to come mess with me.
He studies me with a predator’s gaze: calm, measured, almost bored. He slips off his jacket, peeling the fabric off his broad shoulders. He wears a black t-shirt that molds around his muscular torso like a second skin. His arm is branded with tattoos that don’t exactly befit his station. Markings are often worn by the lower class. Not the future Supreme Director.
My pulse spikes as he prepares himself. I have to win. No matter what.
I go to the weapons area and grab the baton again. When I look back, I can tell he is judging me for being predictable, but if I can get this thing to strike his head, I might be able to kill him, or at the very least, concuss him. And how satisfying will it be to watch his big frame be carted away on a stretcher? I almost smile at the picture.
I approach him, fingers gripping the baton like a lifeline.
“Begin,” he says.
“Aren’t you going to pick a weapon?” I ask.
He smiles thinly. “I don’t need one.”
Cocky bastard.
I advance first, baton in hand, anticipating his moves. I learned a lot about him from that one day we fought together. He is fast and alert, and if I’m being completely honest, he is better-trained than me. As quick as his reflexes are, without a weapon, I outpower him, which means he’ll have to either disarm me early on or remain on the defensive.
So long as I keep this baton glued to my fingers, I have a fighting chance.
I lunge for him, expecting him to retreat, but all he does is lazily raise his hand, and the world shifts around us. The air begins to warp, rippling like a wind-swept curtain. I blink and find myself standing on a pencil-thin stone path, high above a roaring river. Rocks crumble beneath my boots, and a frightened squeal escapes my lips.
I can feel the wind slapping my cheeks and hear the rush of water below.
This isn’t real. It’s just one of his illusions.
