“Not exactly.” At my age, Mira had been training in hand-to-hand for twelve years. I have a whopping six months under my belt, which wouldn’t matter as much if I wasn’t as breakable as a porcelain teacup, but here we are.
Ridoc launches toward Aurelie, but she ducks, sweeping out her leg and tripping him. He staggers but doesn’t go down. He pivots quickly, palming a dagger in his hand.
“No blades today!” Professor Emetterio bellows from beside the mat. He’s only the fourth professor I’ve met, but he’s definitely the one who intimidates me most. Or maybe it’s just the subject he teaches that has me envisioning his compact frame as giant. “We’re just assessing!”
Ridoc grumbles and sheathes his knife just in time to deflect a right hook from Aurelie.
“The brunette packs a punch,” Rhiannon says with an appreciative smile before glancing my way.
“What about you?” I ask as Ridoc lands a jab to Aurelie’s ribs.
“Shit!” He shakes his head and backs up a step. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Aurelie holds her ribs but lifts her chin. “Who said you hurt me?”
“Pulling your punches does her a disservice,” Dain says, folding his arms. “The Cygnis on the northeast border aren’t going to give her any quarter because she’s a woman if she falls from her dragon behind enemy lines, Ridoc. They’ll kill her just the same.”
“Let’s go!” Aurelie shouts, beckoning Ridoc by curling her fingers. It’s obvious that most cadets have trained their whole lives to enter the quadrant, especially Aurelie, who slips a jab from Ridoc and twists to land a quick tap to his kidneys.
Ouch.
“I mean…damn,” Rhiannon mutters, giving Aurelie another look before turning back to me. “I’m pretty good on the mat. My village is on the Cygnisen border, so we all learned to defend ourselves fairly young. Physics and math aren’t problems, either. But history?” She shakes her head. “That class might be the death of me.”
“They don’t kill you for failing history,” I say as Ridoc charges Aurelie, taking her to the mat with enough force to make me wince. “I’m probably going to die on these mats.”
She hooks her legs around his and somehow leverages him over until she’s the one on top, landing punch after punch to the side of his face. Blood spatters the mat.
“I could probably offer some tips to survive combat training,” Sawyer says from Rhiannon’s other side, running his hand over a day’s growth of brown stubble that doesn’t quite cover his freckles. “History isn’t my strongest subject, though.”
A tooth goes flying and bile rises in my throat.
“Enough!” Professor Emetterio shouts.
Aurelie rolls off Ridoc and stands, touching her fingers to her split lip and examining the blood, then offers her hand to help him up.
He takes it.
“Cianna, take Aurelie to the healers. No reason to lose a tooth during assessment,” Emetterio orders.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Rhiannon says, locking her brown eyes with mine. “Let’s help each other out. We’ll help you with hand-to-hand if you help us with history. Sound like a deal, Sawyer?”
“Absolutely.”
“Deal.” I swallow as one of the third-years wipes down the mat with a towel. “But I think I’m getting the better end of that.”
“You haven’t seen me try to memorize dates,” Rhiannon jokes.
A couple of mats over, someone shrieks, and we all turn to look. Jack Barlowe has another first-year in a headlock. The other guy is smaller, thinner than Jack, but still has a good fifty pounds on me.
Jack yanks his arms, his hands still secure around the other man’s head.
“That guy is such an ass—” Rhiannon starts.
The sickening crack of bones breaking sounds across the gym, and the first-year goes limp in Jack’s hold.
“Sweet Malek,” I whisper as Jack drops the man to the ground. I’m starting to wonder if the god of death lives here for how often his name must be invoked. My lunch threatens to reappear, but I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, since it’s not like I can shove my head between my knees here.
“What did I say?” their instructor shouts as he charges onto the mat. “You broke his damned neck!”
“How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?” Jack argues.
You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going to be the one to kill you. His promise from yesterday slithers through my memory.
“Eyes forward,” Emetterio orders, but his tone is kinder than it has been as we all look away from the dead first-year. “You don’t have to get used to it,” he tells us. “But you do have to function through it. You and you.” He points to Rhiannon and another first-year in our squad, a man with a stocky build, blue-black hair, and angular features. Shit, I can’t remember his name. Trevor? Thomas, maybe? There are too many new people to remember who is who at this point.
I glance at Dain, but he’s watching the pair as they take the mat.
Rhiannon makes quick work of the first-year, stunning me every time she dodges a punch and lands one of her own. She’s fast, and her hits are powerful, the kind of lethal combination that will set her apart, just like Mira.
“Do you yield?” she asks the first-year guy when she takes him to his back, her hand stopped mid-hit just above his throat.
Tanner? I’m pretty sure it’s something that starts with a T.
“No!” he shouts, hooking his legs around Rhiannon’s and slamming her to her back. But she rolls and quickly gains her feet before putting him in the same position again, this time with her boot to his neck.
“I don’t know, Tynan, you might want to yield,” Dain says with a grin. “She’s handing you your ass.”
Ah, that’s right. Tynan.
