Page 40 of Embers of Frost
Please get word to me soon.
Take care, J. I miss you.
Xx,
E
The next fewdays of training with Rylan go no better than the first; in fact, if it’s possible, they’re even worse. Thankfully, at least my combat training with Chasina, while brutal, proves to be useful. As hard as it is to learn to keep my balance, maintain a straight back, align my knuckles, bend my knees, and breathe all at once, it’s still infinitely more achievable than squeezing a single drop of water out of the air.
Rylan also manages to devolve into more of an asshole by the minute. By the fifth day, the lines on his forehead are so deeply ingrained that I bet if I stuck a finger into the crevices, it would get permanently stuck. The thought almost makes me laugh as we glare at each other in the middle of the traininggrounds. We’re at our fifth standoff for the day, his hands on his hips as he yells at me to focus as if I hadn’t heard him the first hundred times he said it.
It doesn’t help that we’re not alone today. In the far corner of the field stands one of the castle’s resident Strength trainers, Master Tavyn, with a group of junior disciples going through some basic manoeuvres. In practised formations, they conjure small streams of water and snow patches. Basic. Huh. What I wouldn’t give to manifest just one little snowball right now, just so I can smash it into Rylan’s insufferable face.
“Are you listening to me?” Rylan shouts, as I stare wistfully over at the group, wishing I could be there with them.
I spin back to my own trainer with an eye roll. “They can hear you in all three neighbouring realms, Your Highness!”
“Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to yell if you were actually showing some actual improvement instead of simply mastering the art of failing!”
I mirror his stance, hands on hips, as I draw myself up to full height and meet him glare for glare. “And maybe I wouldn’t be failing so spectacularly if you actually tried teaching instead of barking orders like I’m nothing but an infantry soldier!” I shout back, my frustration boiling over.
We stand there, seething, the tension between us crackling like lightning in the air before a storm. I want to scream at him, to demand answers, but all I can do is glare, my hands clenched at my sides.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. “You know what? This is fucking pointless. When you feel like actually trying to train me, I’ll be in the combat training room,” I hiss, turning on my heel and storming off. Let him finish his training alone if this is how he wants to spend it. I’ve had enough of his impossible demands, his cold, impassive glares, his refusal to see me as anything other than a failure.
I don’t stop stomping until I reach the combat room. Wandering over to the sparring mats, I move to an empty corner, leaning against the wall as I try to steady my fury. The room is filled with people already deep in their training. It’s immediately clear that no one here is in their first week like I am. They move with expert grace and precision, their bodies flowing through the motions with a confidence that I can’t even begin to emulate. The sound of fists hitting targets, the dull thud of bodies making contact, and the sharp, focused breaths of the trainees fill the space.
I watch two shirtless men spar in the centre of the room, their movements almost like a choreographed dance. They’re fast, their strikes and counters perfectly timed, each action a display of their obvious skill and experience. The sparring match is intense, and I can’t help but be drawn into it, momentarily distracted from my own anger.
One of the fighters, a tall man with light hair and sharp features, finally gets the upper hand, pinning his opponent to the ground with a swift, decisive move. The fight is over in an instant, and the winner stands, offering a hand to help the other up. As he does, his gaze sweeps the room and lands on me. With a confident stride, he immediately makes his way over. It’s only when he’s closer that I recognise him as one of the noblemen I’d seen in the throne room on the day I arrived. With his chiselled jaw and piercing eyes, he looks like Rylan but with darker colouring and less angular features.
“Caelum,” he introduces himself with an easy smile and a tiny tilt of his head. “Looking for a sparring partner?”
“Absolutely not. I have no idea what I’m doing, and you look like you might knowtoo muchabout what you’re doing,” I admit, still seething from my encounter with Rylan.
Caelum bows, but with only mischief in his eyes. “Well, maybe I can help you become a little more knowing.”
“Maybe you're just trying to show off?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, I don’t need to try,” he quips, his grin widening. “It just happens naturally.”
Half an hour later, we’re both breathless from laughing, sharing a joke at the expense of my clumsiness. My earlier frustration is forgotten as Caelum stands close behind me, his foot nudging mine into position. His arm is around my waist, lightly holding me as he guides me through the motions, demonstrating how to counter a frontal attack.
“You’ve got to loosen up, Eira,” Caelum instructs, his breath warm against my ear. “Relax, or you’ll never be able to outmanoeuvre anyone.”
“I’m trying, but I’m afraid my natural state is rather tree-stump-ish!” I reply with a snort.
“No exaggeration there,” a gruff voice says, and I don’t need to look over to know it’s Grellor.
“But an utterly fetching and compliant tree stump, right, Grellie?” I tease, happy to see him for the first time since we said goodbye in the castle’s courtyard.
He simply huffs. “An annoyingly chatty tree stump, if I recall correctly.”
“Well,Ithink Stumpy is terribly funny and charming,” Caelum adds with a wink.
“I’d be careful about someone hearing you say that,” Grellor says. “Some people are rather… territorial about their…tree stumps.”
I blink. “Huh?”
