My lips clamped shut, teeth grinding.
But dammit, I caved.
Fine. I could handle a few squats. They might have the bodies of warrior-angels and endurance built from stone, but I had a reputation to uphold.
The inhale dragged, but I mirrored their stance, dropping low. The exhale came easier than expected when I rose again. Too simple, I could do this.
A shadow loomed at my side. “That was easy,” Callum cut in, “because you’re not doing it right.”
Irritation flared, and I slammed my mental shields up so hard I knew he felt the rattle in his own.
“I know how to squat, Callum.” I lowered again, sharper this time, forcing weight into my heels, sitting in my invisible chair from hel.
“Then do it right.” He stepped in close, nudging my spine straighter, grounding my weight. “Restart your count. And actually jump this time.”
His attention was already back on Duke when he withdrew, because, of course, now they were competing, squatting like perfectly tuned machines. Smooth. Rhythmic. Effortless.
I tried to summon the Viper forward, praying the curse would lend me strength, or at least a distraction. Oh, wait. I had one better—
“I bet six coins Duke beats your ass in a spar.” The words slipped out, sweet and barbed.
No man alive could resist the urge to prove he was the dominant.
Duke froze mid-rep, brow cocked, a dangerous look sparking in his eyes.
Callum didn’t even pause, just huffed between jumps. “No one’s falling for that. We’ll spar after your rep.”
Duke held my gaze a second longer, temptation flickering. Then he smirked and sank back into rhythm with Callum, matching his pace.
Damn them both.
Alright. One hundred. Just get it over with.
I lowered again, my legs refusing to lunge back up.
“You have to go back up.” Duke’s laugh trailed down my neck. Too amused for his own good.
“I know that,” I hissed, forcing myself to spring skyward. My feet slapped stone as I landed, knees groaning as I sank again.
That incessant burn in my thighs, the fire clawing up my calves, it lit something. A flare I hadn’t felt in years, from when I had only been a dreamer, not a weapon.
That was what gripped me first, the vision of a better life, a better world, but it was the nobility that kept me.
Our meetings were hushed things, candles flickering, shadows pressed close, whispers about thrones and heirs and a kingdom that might one day be whole again.
I barely understood the significance of it, only that there was a girl who was meant for more.
A girl who would changeeverything.
I saw the poison then. Obrann’s venality seeping from his throne, bleeding into every corner of Luamis. I wanted to cut it out.
For her, for Elva.
At thirteen, I stopped only listening at the meetings. I started leading. My words weren’t childish anymore; they were wildfire. Fury and love woven into something they wanted to follow.
I painted futures worth bleeding for, a kingdom ruled by its true heir, where equality wasn’t just an expectation but a promise.
At fourteen Callum gave me a choice—stay a dreamer or become a warrior, part of the Awakened Order.
