Page 49 of Loreblood
At this point, because of my luminary status as a female fighter, I was surrounded at the table by girls. Jinneth, Helget, Aelin, Imis, and a new friend of ours named Palacia.
Palacia was one of the six interfolk—born a boy before transforming and accepting her place as a girl at the age of thirteen. She was now an eighteen-year-old beauty with luscious blond hair flowing down her back, a slim frame, and a kind smile.
Palacia was lovely to be around. One of the highlights of befriending her was watching the boys squirm as they struggled with their obvious attraction to her, while flipping insults at her constantly. The most hot-blooded young men in the Fireholdfought against their desire for a girl who had a cock—one that put theirs to shame, as I had noticed one night when I accidentally walked in on Palacia mounting Imis in one of the empty workrooms.
Times had changed. I had a coterie. A pack.
So when Culiar approached my table, he did so with reticence and suspicion and slight fear in his eyes.
It gave me great satisfaction to see him fumble all over our table before placing his hands in front of him and sighing to gather his wits. “Here,” he grunted, and then reached into his tunic. He pulled out a small bottle of greenish liquid, which he set down in front of my dinner plate.
“What is this?” I asked. “Poison?”
Culiar rolled his eyes and carded a hand through his hair. He glanced across the table at Palacia, who beamed at him. His cheeks went red. He muttered, “It’s a . . . salve. Got it from Old Endolf the alchemist. Rub it on your hand. It’ll help the healing process go faster. It, erm, did wonders for my collar. Something about it seeping into your bones is soothing. I don’t know—ask Endolf. Could be magic, science, you know how he is.”
I did know Old Endolf, the Grimsons’ scholar and alchemist who rarely showed his old, leathery, curmudgeonly face.
I also knew Culiar. I thought. And this was not him.
Scratching my cheek, I stared down at the bottle then up at him. Over his shoulder, I saw Rirth watching us from a different table. “Did Rirth put you up to this?”
Culiar gave a quick headshake. He was nervous rather than bombastic, and I appreciated this version of the young man much more than the snide, offensive one.
“No,” he said, struggling to find the words. A full minute passed. “I . . . have recognized you are not the enemy I thought you were. None of the Grimsons are. We have actual adversariesto defeat once we reach the shadowgalas in Olhav. Enemies who aren’t part of us.”
My head tilted. My flock of girls stayed mute, shocked into silence rather than their usual chittering.
“Are you saying the Grimsons are meant to be allies, Culiar?”
“Allies, comrades, compatriots. Call it what you want, Sephania,” he scoffed. With a single nod, he turned to leave, walking toward the waiting group of young men near Rirth.
“Thank you,” I called out. “For this.”
He froze and looked over his shoulder.
I held the bottle of green liquid, wagging it. A small smile crept up. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve heard my actual name pass through your lips. It’s usually ‘Bitch-Queen’ or ‘cunt’ or some variation of the two. I think my favorite was ‘slut-hound.’”
Culiar’s lip curled. It was so close to a smile I could have mistaken it for one.
Flaring his nostrils with the near-smirk still on his face, he said, “Don’t get used to it, cunt.”
It was four months of recovery—the salve Culiar gave me helped knock that down from six—and then six months of continuous sparring. Some of the sparring was concurrent with my healing, since my right hand still worked.
Lukain could only keep my stubborn ass out of the ring for so long.
Finally, after almost a year, and my third year in the Firehold, I had rounded back to where I was when I’d made a name for myself in the dueling arena.
I was seventeen summers old, in the full bloom of my womanhood. My growth spurts had ended and left a strongpresence in its wake. I was in peak physical condition for who I was—my curves were not going to shrink, neither was my height. My overall size fluctuated, but not enough to make a difference in the ring.
I had grown into who I was always meant to be. I worked around my deficiencies and weaknesses to turn them into strengths. Being a thicker person meant I could take more punishment. Being tall meant I had long strides and could veer around opponents. Being wider than men made them underestimate my breadth, reach, and ability to turn my guard, because they were so used to fighting other narrow-hipped men.
Rirth made good on his promise of tutoring me in his sprightly ways. He showed me footwork to practice, stances to study and adapt into my fighting style. Many of the patterns he showed me were ones Lukain had never used or expressed interest in because Lukain was tall like I was.
Rirth was impressive because he had adapted a unique style all his own, due to his size. It was an admirable trait. I considered him perhaps the best active fighter in the Firehold.
He paid me a great compliment one night by saying he consideredmethe best.
“Don’t tell the other boys I said that,” he drawled, before breaking into a zigzagging rhythm across the room that utilized bent knees and angled trajectories to dance around an opponent.
