Chapter 6

" You think the hard part is over because you're almost to graduation?" Gramble strides across the arena, retrieving the cache of wooden swords. "You've gotten complacent. The trip to the Market spoiled you, spending all day playing cards and sneaking ale while on the ship."

We stand in line, heaving from the last set of conditioning.

He tosses a sword into each chest as he walks down the line. "Yes, I know all about your transgressions." He's baiting us, damn well aware the voyage was anything but luxurious. "Attack your left. Whoever goes down first has to run laps." He stands on the furthest side of the line of trainees to observe. "Begin!"

It's an all-out battle.

I swing the sword with my left arm, aiming for Lawson's exposed kidney, my right in a fist above my head to block the blow I know is coming from my right. The sword may be wooden, but it's polished and sharpened to perfection. The task is assigned on the regular as punishment for insubordination, and the edge of the makeshift blade sends fire down my forearm.

Lawson spins away, the tip of my sword a mere scrape against his back. My attacker, Paul, is quick to disarm his assailant, his attention solely focused on me now .

"Didn't know they let traitors stay in the guard," he sneers in my face.

I abandon being the aggressor as I take up the defensive, sword against sword to meet Paul's onslaught. He's bigger and stronger than I am. I use it to my advantage, getting inside his reach as I spin into his chest. With my back to him, I jam the sword into Paul's gut behind me. It's a fatal wound, and he's forced to fall back.

"You were saying?"

He throws his sword to the deck as he accepts defeat. I scan the arena and spot Lawson, who's taken the defensive position against Aurora, retreating back a step with each blow she advances. It's almost too easy to sneak up behind him, my eyes meeting Aurora's over Lawson's shoulder. Without tipping Lawson off, she angles her next blow to send him right in my direction, and I slice the sword across his throat.

He growls out a frustrated yell, and Gramble instructs him to quit whining and start running.

"Thanks," I tell Aurora, but she's already moved on to her next target.

I gulp down water from my pack, grateful to be done with today's hellish training session. I do not envy the felled guards who are already running laps around the arena. There are only four people left sparring—Messer against two, Aurora and Philipe—and it appears they have teamed up against Messer in a temporary truce. He's the best swordsman in our class, so it's a smart decision.

It doesn't take long for Messer to take down Philipe in a quick juke and slash to the back of the knees. Aurora, on the other hand, seems out for blood. Her attacks become feral with little rhyme or reason behind her movements, operating on nothing more than blind instinct to strike Messer somewhere, anywhere.

Messer meets her blows but doesn't counterstrike, and it's obvious he's letting her wear herself out. And, sure enough, her swings begin to lose momentum, and he's able to disarm her. Swordless, she stands before him, chest heaving from exertion. They stare at each other for long moments before Messer picks up her sword, holding it out for her in a show of peace.

It feels like everyone waits with bated breath to see if she'll leave him looking like a fool, but Aurora never looks away first. It goes against everything she stands for. Instead, she yanks the sword from his hand and waits for him to walk away before putting up her sword and beginning her laps.

Clapping comes from the entrance of the paddocks, and everyone turns to look as the captain, Dupre, and Kai emerge onto the arena floor. It's evident they've been monitoring training from the clock tower above deck.

We're on the most northern point of the grove, the easiest place to house the livestock after offloading from the ships. It's also where, if an ambush ever were to happen, it would be most visible.

The trainees stand at attention, including the runners, stopping midstride to pay their respects. Kai's eyes go straight to mine, and I do my best to appear unfazed by his surprise appearance. We've been sneaking around the past few weeks, finding any hidden moment we can to be alone, to hold hands and look at each other without prying eyes, and to kiss. Lots and lots of kissing. It's reckless, we know. I'm pretty sure his parents are aware, but they're willing to play ignorant as long as we don't get caught. The captain wouldn't be able to ignore our indiscretions if it became public knowledge.

"You may resume," Captain Wren says, releasing us. "You've done well training this bunch, Gramble."

Our instructor basks in the praise. If he had feathers, they'd be fluffed to their full glory.

"They've been a stubborn lot," he says in jest.

Kai takes in the victors. "Any in particular?" he asks, eyes sliding to mine. He's goading me.

Gramble, missing the connotation, declares all of us as problem children.

"How about one more demonstration," the captain says. "Your two best swordsmen."

Everyone perks up as Gramble turns his attention to us. As expected, he points to Messer. "You." He does a quick perusal before landing on Willard. "And you."

A fair match, at least as close as anyone can get to Messer's skill level. Willard is decent.

They move to gather their practice swords, but Dupre stops them, removing the sheath of leather from his back and unrolling it to reveal brand-new swords, real ones with handles made of varying shades of copper and bronze and double-edged blades, shiny and sharp.

"Choose your weapon," he says, voice full of gravel.

They each look over the selection and pick, Messer preferring bronze over copper.

"In the ring," Gramble instructs.

We all follow them to the sparring circle carved into the wood on the arena floor.

"You know the drill. First to submit or step over the line concedes the fight. "

Everyone is silent as we watch the two opponents enter the ring. The stakes are different with real swords. It's not that the wooden ones aren't damaging in their own right—I have the scars and bruises to prove they are—but Willard has a tendency to be ruthless in his sparring, and being armed with a sharp blade adds a dose of danger to the mix.

Messer balances the weapon in his hand, flipping it to and fro in his palm to get used to the weight then readying his stance across from Willard. Gramble holds a hand outstretched between them, dropping it in a fist as the signal to start.

Willard initiates. Messer expects it and deflects, blades striking with a loud clank of metal. He follows it up with a quick returning swing that Willard hurries to match. Each flurry of movement has me holding my breath, waiting for the final ax to fall, and praying it's Messer's. It goes on like this for what feels like forever as the runners trickle in to watch the match when they finish their laps.

Eventually, battled into exhaustion, Willard loses a step that Messer's able to put pressure on, forcing Willard to concede another step to regain his balance. Messer doesn't relent, attacking with fast strikes that push his opponent over the line, and cheers erupt. I cup my hands around my mouth to celebrate his victory.

Captain Wren steps into the ring with Kai, and when he raises a hand, the applause dies down. "Each class needs a commander," he says, hand falling to Messer's shoulder in pride.

Kai unstraps the additional holster buckled across his chest, revealing a sword unlike the others. A snake is carved into the golden pommel, its forked tongue splitting into the crossguard where the blade meets the hilt. He holds it across both palms as he bows his head to Messer.

Messer looks at the captain then at his friend and the sword outstretched before him. He must be in shock, staring at the weapon with wide eyes for what feels like an eternity as everyone waits for him to accept his new position.

An awkward amount of time passes before the captain says, "Go ahead. You've earned it."

Messer swallows. Stretching out a hand, he runs his fingers over the golden snake then removes them. "With all due respect," he says, angling his body toward the captain and then Gramble. "No I haven't."

A flurry of murmurs zips around the circle.

"If I'm going to be the best, I have to beat the best."

Kai inspects his friend. "And who do you consider the best?"

Messer turns his head in my direction. "Brynn." The murmurs turn into a shower of voices, and Gramble shouts for everyone to be quiet. "You're the only one who's ever bested me," he says.

"Only because you were going easy on me," I counter.

Smiling a little, he shakes his head. "You know that's not true."

Do I? The two times I was able to defeat him felt like flukes, him making simple mistakes because he wasn't putting in all of his effort.

"A rematch then," Kai says, placing the sword against his back again.

I shake my head. "It wouldn't be a fair fight when he's already winded."

"Oh, I'm still going to win," Messer says, cocky, swinging his blade to his side. "But at least I'll earn it this time."

Captain Wren gives Messer's shoulder a shake. "Very admirable, son." He motions for me to step forward, and I force my trembling legs to comply. It's not until I'm standing before Messer that I realize I don't have a sword.

Without having to be told, Kai pulls his personal weapon from his waist, gaze reassuring as he holds it out to me by the blade.

The chatter from our classmates falls silent. This isn't done. Swords are personal to each guard. They're never shared or traded, the most sacred of belongings to an Alaha. For Kai to offer me his as commander of his own fleet, as the future captain, says more than words ever could.

I grasp the gold hilt, the tree embossed along the handle foreign in my palm. It's heavier than I'm used to, and I run through a few practice techniques, shifting it from hand to hand to familiarize myself with it as quickly as I can.

I'm here despite managing to surpass every challenge designed to weed out the weakest links, and yet I've fought to defend my place in the guard since I joined at twelve. I've been met with skepticism from all sides, from Gramble and my peers to the old hag down the walkway from my room.

Taking a deep breath, I meet Messer's stare. An air of mutual respect radiates between us, and I decide, right here and right now, to quit trying to prove myself to people who don't care to know me. Maybe I wouldn't have gotten here without Kai's influence, but I know I've earned this fight. The fact that Messer thinks I'm worthy is more than enough for me, no matter the outcome.

Gramble puts his outstretched hand in the ring between us, looking to each of us for a nod of approval, then closes his fist and drops it.

I run through attack scenarios, but I know all his countermoves, and he knows mine. We circle each other, smiling cause we're both thinking the same thing. Even so, one of us has to make the first move.

He fakes a juke in my direction, smile growing wide when I don't even flinch.

"Come on, B," he taunts. "Show everyone what you got."

I suck on my teeth. "You're the one who invited me here. Are you scared?"

"Of what? Your back—" He deflects my jab with a spin, smiling at the narrow miss. "I was going to say backhand, but the jab is a nice start."

I swing left then right, and he blocks both, pushing me back with his blade against mine. I attack again, high, low, looking for a gap, but he parries every move. It's annoying.

I'm not going to let him take the easy way by wearing me down until it benefits him to counterstrike. I twist into what he wants me to give him, throwing all my strength into my backhand. He throws up his sword in just enough time, arms shaking from the reverberation when our blades meet. I keep the pressure, teeth bared as we stare at each other, mere inches separating us.

"Thought you weren't going to go easy on me."

He fights a smile over clenched teeth. "As you wish."

A sharp ting sounds as we push away with our blades, and it's the beginning of an unceasing melody of metal against metal. He doesn't relent, striking and dodging and counterstriking. We flow from one side of the circle to the other in an endless barrage of movement. There's no thinking or planning like it's often easy for me to do against other opponents, only instinct and reaction, my purest form of training taking the lead.

It's euphoric.

We break after some time, chasing air with every breath, and I realize I'm smiling as wide as he is before going back in. I switch hands, giving my dominant arm a break, and he does the same. Left, right, up, back. The blade never stops ringing in my hands. I'm mid-spin, throwing the sword back to my right, when I feel it—the opening I gave him. The resulting sting of the blade meeting the inside of my upper arm isn't surprising. I don't stop my momentum, elbowing him in the ribs instead and swinging back around to jab for his exposed side. He pushes me with a forearm to the chest, and I stagger back a few steps.

I'm forced to hold my ground against his onslaught. I'm tired. I have to concede a step to stop him from getting past my defenses, and like a shark smelling blood in the water, he advances. Grunting with every block, I defend again and again as he heaves all his power and might behind his weapon. I don't need to look behind me to know the line is at my heels. If I don't do something, he's going to bully me out of the circle.

In a last-ditch effort, I leap to the side, rolling into a stance. Hair falls from my braid, blocking my vision, but I don't dare waste the energy to move it. I'm in a battle of survival at this point, the thin edge of his blade looming closer with every pass.

I'm going to lose .

His strength and endurance wouldn't be as unshakeable if he just wasn't so damn good. I have only one option, a frenzied last chance to push him out of the ring. Mustering all the strength I have left, I let him come at me, blades connecting in a cross between us as he pushes me toward the line with all his might.

I let my knees buckle and release my hold on the sword, sliding to the ground so the momentum topples him over. He predicts it and jams his blade into the ground to stop his body from going over. Feet planted on either side of my shoulders, blade shoved into the boards above my head, he looks down at me.

I'm trapped.

Defenseless without my weapon.

Defeated.

I didn't expect to win, but it's a bitter feeling to come so close. If there's a consolation prize, it's the fact that Messer looks like he's been to hell and back with me. Sweat pours from his hair in streams, face and neck a deep red, shirt slashed in a multitude of places, panting from exertion. I can only imagine what I look like in turn—I feel like literal shit.

He reaches a hand down, and I debate the merits of living down here forever but accept it. It hurts.

Messer's smile is soft when he says, "I told you I'd win."

I push him, but it's a feeble shove.

No one cheers like they did when Messer won his first match. Only Kai enters the ring to greet the victor this time. He eyes me but focuses on Messer, once again presenting him with the sword fit for the new commander.

" That was an honorable fight. "

Messer takes the sword in its sheath. "To be Alaha."

Kai nods. "To be Alaha."

I retrieve Kai's sword from where I abandoned it on the dock. The metal is scorching hot. I hold it out to him in the way he offered it to me, by the blade, apologetic.

He accepts it but doesn't let go, using it as a rope to pull me closer. "I am proud to call you my match." Then he kisses me, in front of everyone, rules and decorum be damned.

Whatever punishment awaits, we'll suffer it together.

It'll be worth it.