Page 45 of The Trials of Ophelia

“Which of these have been tested?” Dax asked, gesturing to the lists.

Lyria walked over and pointed to the second from the right. “These were successes.” Then, the one on the far right. “These could be improved.”

“The successes are who has held the border?” I clarified.

Lyria nodded, pride lifting her chin. “They haven’t breached the range. But there’s a problem with the Mindshapers.”

“Problem?”

“That power of theirs is a dangerous weapon. Only a few of them have harnessed it in a destructive way, but I expect more will. Especially if Kakias is controlling them with dark magic. I don’t know the extent of it, but we need a defense against them.”

“In the meantime”—Mila stepped forward—“you all join us for training tomorrow.”

The wind was bitter against my skin bright and early the next morning, but Barrett, Dax, and I donned leathers and weapons and wound through the tents and cabins until we arrived at the makeshift training yard.

Warriors of all four alliance clans were there.

“Right on time,” Mila called, jogging over. “Are you ready?” She looked all three of us over, but the question seemed more for me than it was them.

“Of course,” I answered, meeting the challenge.

“Good.” She nodded. “General Goverick,” she addressed Dax, then signaled over her shoulder to where Amara, Cyren, and Quilian stood. The five generals had met for hours last night, reviewing strategy. “You can observe the regular routine with the others. We’ll adjust as we all see necessary over the coming days.”

“Thank you,” Dax dismissed himself.

“You two want to pair up?” Mila asked Barrett and me.

We exchanged a look. Barrett’s lips quirked into a smile. “Let’s go, brother.”

“Fucking Spirits.” I laughed, removing my sword from my belt. The Engrossian ax I’d taken from the Battle of Damenal hung opposite it, and Lucidius’s dagger with that. I shoved the prince’s shoulder. “Come on.”

Mila barked out orders to the warriors. The first training shift was the smallest, but even then there were more of us than I’d expected. Barrett and I fell among them, some giving us a wide berth. I gritted my teeth and pretended not to notice. We were fighting beside them, weren’t we?

Setting my stance, I flexed my fingers around the leather grip of my sword once, twice. Tried to focus on only the blade in my hand and the opponent before me. I breathed as deeply as possible as we circled, the clangs of weapons around us dulling to a muted hum.

It was one of the first times I’d really trained since the Battle of Damenal, having spent weeks avoiding arenas. Cypherion pulled me in occasionally, seeing through my bullshit excuses, but normally I was busy.

When Barrett struck and I successfully countered the attack, I was surprised by the satisfied warmth spreading through my chest.

I pushed him back, lunging to the left when he swung again. I rebounded and met his next strike. He danced toward the arena railing with light steps, our weapons repeatedly clashing between us.

Barrett was a surprisingly good swordsman—a graceful and fluid threat. Should he unleash the ax at his side, he’d be brutally skilled.

“That’s it, Malakai!” Dax cheered from the sideline as I nearly got my sword around Barrett who threw a curse his consort’s way. Rebel barked on the sidelines. Spirits, that wolf was eerily everywhere.

We wove between warriors, dodging not only each other’s strikes but limbs and weapons of the pairs as if we could sense them before they struck. Was this what it was like to be in a cohesive army? The energy buzzing between us all was palpable. Lyria had said they were still learning to move as one, but if this was a taste of the inclusion to come, I wanted to be a part of it.

It called to that purpose I’d wanted?—

Pain lashed through my side, warmth trickling over my ribs. I cursed, pressed my hand to the spot. When I pulled it back, my gloves were crimson.

I met Barrett’s fear-stricken eyes. “I’m so sorry!” he blurted, hand to his mouth. “Fuck, that wasn’t supposed to hit you.”

“It’s okay,” I whispered, but I couldn’t get the words out at full volume. My throat was tightening. I dropped my weapons and tore off my gloves, air crisp against my slick palms.

Pulling aside my tunic, the chill rose goosebumps as I looked at the spot where an old scar had reopened. One from those days. That cell.

Sweat cascaded down my back, sticking my leathers to my skin. Taunts and jeers echoed. My muscles slackened.

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