Page 19 of Veiled

Think, think, think. What do I have? What can I use?

I have nothing, nothing but a long stick. As slowly as I can, while needing to get out of here like yesterday, I move into the tree line.

Then, I triple-check where I am in relation to the rune by me and pray to the gods, still lifting my hands to go down fighting if I got this all right, as the black beast comes tearing at me.

“Observation complete,” Varin's voice cuts in, as the world snaps back so fast my head spins. My chest is heaving, hands are still half-raised for the fight I barely escaped. By the looks on the faces of the rest of my class, they didn’t fare much better in their own simulations.

Commander Varin looks us all over, the evidence of her disapproval blaring on her face for all to see. “Three minutes,” she sighs disappointedly. “That’s how long it took before half of you would have been dead. Vines, quicksand, poisonous spores…you name it. You didn’t see them because you didn’t look where you were going.

“Survival isn’t about winning like war is. It’s about lasting. Finding the threats that surround you and not only creating, but implementing a plan before those threats have a chance to kill you. The environment is always your first enemy, and your greatest weapon, if you’re smart enough to use it.”

Her gaze flicks to me, sharp and deliberate. “Recruit Corvin, you were lucky and spotted a boundary rune. That’s the only reason you lasted as long as you did.”

Her tone is scolding, but I’ll take luck over getting mauled by a monster any day.

“Simulation two on Thursday,” she announces, turning away. “Bring only one of your daggers, one bandage, and the assumption that no one’s coming to save you.”

Day Two: survived. Barely.

Chapter eight

Annalise

By the time the week ends, I’m not sure I even know my own name anymore.

Between the tactical drills that left me sore and aching, two more rounds of simulations in Environmental Tactics, each slightly different from the last but still ending in my premature death, beginning to learn the intricacies of healing, which I am apparently abhorrent at, and instructors who seemed incapable of smiling, except for Captain Korr, who I saw grace a few students with a half-smile.

My arms ache, my legs are permanently sore, and I am developing a suspiciously dependent relationship with coffee at all hours to avoid the nightmares that won’t let me escape home.

As classes on Saturday come to an end, we’re all running on fumes. Top the already long week with the reminder that our specialty track classes start in two days, and it doesn’t take much for Sasha to convince me to go out tonight. Matt, of course, needed absolutely no convincing.

With how reserved Sasha was when we met mere days ago, it’s hard to believe that the almost feral woman I’m getting ready to go to a bar with is the same person.

“First week down, and we’re not dead!” Sasha cheers, throwing back a shot of vodka and pressing another into my hand. She’s currently trying on her third outfit from the stack of clothes she brought to my room, which now looks like a fashion tornado has ripped through—her discarded pieces scattered everywhere.

The first outfit was a sleek black crop top, high-waisted jean shorts, and flats. She quickly declared it “not enough.” The second was a flowy blue dress that made her freckles pop, but, apparently, “felt too garden fairy who made a wrong turn and accidentally ended up at a bar.”

Now she’s standing in front of the mirror in a fitted white T-shirt, leather jacket slung over her shoulder, and dark, ripped jeans tucked into ankle boots. “Not too crazy, but still gives, ‘I like to have fun, and I’m a bad bitch.”

“A super-hot, bad bitch.”

“Oh my gosh, Lee! You’re not even dressed yet!”

Technically, I’m not even done with my makeup yet, but I choose not to mention that, too.

“The taxi is almost here, and we need food, more alcohol, and dancing STAT!” she cheers as she starts piecing together outfits from my closet and holding them up for me to pick between.

A few minutes later, I’m changing into my favorite white tank top with thin straps and a scoop neck, black jean skirt that hugs my ass like a second skin, and pumps that make my short legs look like they belong to a model. Smiling, I run into my bathroom to grab my gold anklet—an eighteenth birthday present from Matt that he definitely spent too much on—and a cute pair of hoops to finish the look.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t allowed to wear jewelry around my dad. It was that the anklet would’ve been gone the moment he realized what it was worth. Round diamonds circle the delicate gold chain, each one flanked by two smaller stones…too easy to pawn, too valuable to risk. Whenever I wore shorts or a skirt that exposed my ankle, I’d learned to take it off. But in cooler weather back then, and ever since coming here, it’s a permanent fixture, only leaving my body when I’m in the shower.

Sasha lets out a low whistle when I step back out. “Hot damn! You look great.”

Slipping into our jackets and checking our reflections one last time, my phone chimes.

It’s a photo from James in our group chat: him and Antonio raising their drinks to the camera, smug-ass smiles firmly in place. A not-so-subtle reminder that they’d just won our bet about whether we’d be late.

The bar is buzzing with contagious energy when we walk in. Music and laughter spill from every corner of the room, the smell of spiced liquor, old wood, and sweat floats around the large space like a promise of the fun ahead—or maybe a warning after all these walls have seen.