“I never said you couldn’t. You’re wounded. Wounded warriors have no place in the training arena.”
“I couldn’t be the only one hiding in the fortress.”
“Your leg–”
“Damn my leg,” he burst out once more. “I’ve already made a fool of myself, I don’t need your help with that.”
I frowned, ignoring the fresh cracks in my patience. “When?”
“In the attack.” Even his mutter sounded vicious. “I got wounded.”
“So did Vylkor. So did I. You think we made fools of ourselves?”
“No.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“I just–” He gripped his shield hard, like he wanted to break it. “I need to be better. Grand.”
“You don’t have to be grand in battle,” I said.
“I do,” he said, unrelenting. “It’s what everyone expects of me. My father was one of the best warriors of the land. I should be, too.”
“My father was a philandering fool. Does that mean I have to follow in his dirty footsteps?”
“No, of course not. It’s just…” He sighed, the corners of his eyes crinkling in pain that had nothing to do with his leg. “I want to be different.”
I stepped closer to him. When he didn’t flinch away, I placed a careful hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let the shadows of the past darken your future. Your father was his own man. You will become your own.”
He shrugged, but didn’t move away from my steady hand. “I guess.”
“No more training until you’re healed.”
He nodded, looking miserable, and I felt helpless to break that gloom encasing him. “And Nadya?”
We both looked behind, just in time to see her twist Dyrak’s hand behind his back and whisper something in his ear sinister enough for the boy to gasp.
“Nadya thrives in groups,” I said, as delicately as I could. “I don’t. You don’t have to, either.”
He nodded, but didn't look convinced.
“You and The Huntress…” He shook his head. “You both keep telling me I’m like you, but I don’t feel it.”
“Maybe we see something in you that you can’t. Not yet.”
“I want to see it,” he muttered, so low, I didn’t think he’d meant to utter it.
“Then we’ll work on that.” I tilted my chin and whistled. Everyone on the grounds stopped. “Nadya, Dyrak has had enough. Best let go of his arm before he loses feeling in it.”
“He has no feelings,” she bit out, but let him go with a shove that almost propelled him in the snow. Dyrak righted himself at the last minute. The redness in his cheeks only deepened when his so-called friends began to snicker.
A smile tugged at Geryll’s mouth. “She’s always looking out for me.”
“We need to look after each other.” This dark cloud that had descended upon him needed to be vanquished before it poisoned Geryll’s soul for good.
“I’m sorry I shoved you,” he muttered, scowling at himself. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“Apology accepted as long as you never do it again.”
