Page 22 of Dark Rebel's Mystery

A flicker of movement caught her peripheral vision. It would have been nothing to anyone else—a loose stone, perhaps, or a shift of wind, but Kyra's enhanced senses detected the precise moment a training knife was about to slip from its poorly secured sheath.

She leaped and caught it before it could pierce the foot of the clumsy young fighter, her movements faster than should have been possible.

Her students froze, looking between Kyra and the fallen weapon. She could read the questions in their eyes, the same questions she asked herself daily but never found answers to.

"How did you move that fast?" Malik asked. "And how did you know it was going to fall?"

"Training," she said dismissively. "One day, you'll develop the same ability. Always ensure your equipment is secure and your shoelaces are tied. Small mistakes of negligence can cost you your life." She demonstrated the proper way to fasten the sheath for the umpteenth time, shifting their attention from her impossible speed to the practical lesson.

Rashid, the camp's healer, watched from the edge of the training ground. His lips curled up in a knowing smile, making Kyra's skin prickle. He was too bright not to notice that she never let him treat her wounds, always dismissing them as scratches. More than once, she'd caught him studying her with thoughtful eyes, trying to solve the puzzle she presented.

The training continued as the sun climbed higher, and Kyra kept moving among the young fighters, checking stances and correcting techniques. She loved doing that. Perhaps it filled the void in her chest that craved motherhood.

After all, this was probably as close as she would ever get.

The little girl with eyes that mirrored her own that sometimes appeared in her dreams might be the manifestation of her yearnings, but what if she was real? A sister, perhaps? Was there a family out there somewhere wondering what had happened to her?

The asylum had stolen so many memories, leaving only fragments that made little sense.

"Enough for today," she called as the sun descended. "Practice what you've learned until it becomes as easy as breathing, as automatic as a heartbeat. The better you get, the better chance you have of surviving."

Most of them knew that there was no way out and that they would probably die fighting, but everyone needed hope, a light at the end of the tunnel, and training might make the difference between life and death.

As the students dispersed, wiping sweat from their brows and collecting their equipment, Kyra noticed Rashid pushing off the post he'd been leaning against and then walking toward her.

"Interesting training today." His eyes lingered on a fresh tear in her sleeve—a tear that revealed unmarked skin beneath where a blade should have left a wound hours earlier. She'd been careless, letting her guard down momentarily during a demonstration. The blade had definitely nicked her, she'd felt it, but like always, the wound had healed almost instantly.

"Your healing is remarkable," he said softly.

"I was lucky." She shrugged. "The blade never touched my skin."

But they both knew she was lying. Just as they both knew about the other wounds that had healed on their own—bullet grazes that disappeared within minutes, knife cuts that sealed themselves but had left a trail of blood stains on her uniform that were difficult to explain.

"One day, you'll tell me what they did to you to make you so resilient. It's not natural."

Kyra turned away, busying herself with collecting the practice targets. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right." Rashid stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Why are you lying for the regime dogs? Are you afraid that they will come for you?"

Yes, she was, and it was tempting to share her concerns with someone, but she couldn't.

It was too risky.

Still, for a brief moment Kyra allowed herself to imagine telling him about her enhanced strength and speed, rapid healing, hearing, eyesight, and sense of smell, and how she never seemed to age. About the fragments of memory that haunted her dreams, the child's face that brought tears to her eyes without explanation. About the fear that whatever she was, whatever had been done to her in that asylum, might someday be used against her people.

Instead, she straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. "Let it go, Rashid. Not everything needs a scientific explanation.Sometimes, it's good to accept there are such things as luck and fate."

14

ELL-ROM

Ell-rom looked out the window, turning his face away from Kian and pretending to observe the scenery they were passing by on the way to the keep.

The male was so strong, so capable, so ruthless that he made Ell-rom feel ashamed of his own cowardice. He'd tried to keep his expression schooled, but it was hard to do when his stomach churned with self-loathing, not for the task ahead, but for his fear of it.

Still, there was no hiding his knuckles from Kian, which were white from clasping his hands tightly in his lap to conceal their trembling.

The trip to the keep might be more tolerable if Jasmine was with him, but he didn't want her to see him executing these humans with no more than a thought. She'd seen him do it before, but that was a knee-jerk reaction to the vagabond holding a gun to her head. He hadn't planned to do that, hadn't even been sure that he could, and he'd done it to defend her.

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