Page 50 of The Shadowed Oracle
“Looking forward to it.”
Ingrid watched closely as her arm was moved in a precise jab, her elbow tucked in and aided by the instruction.
“But for now,” Tyla said encouragingly. “I think we should focus onmakingholes. Not filling them.”
Ingrid darted her eyes at her teacher, then to the sword, then back and forth once more. “Oh, god. You made a sword joke.”
“No, I made a verycleversword joke,” Tyla said in an affected sneer. “And you better get used to them. We’re going to be playing with these murderous beauties all night. Gottacutthe tension somehow.”
Ingrid went stone-faced and silent, her body stiffening up.
Then she turned and walked away.
“Where are you going?”
Ingrid kept her eyes forward, tossing the words over her shoulder. “I’m giving you a moment alone. To reflect on your mistakes.”
“What the—are you serious?!”
It wasn’t until Ingrid got a few paces from the exit that Tyla started laughing. “Alright!” she caved in. “You win! Strictly business from now on. Let’s get to work.”
Chapter Sixteen
Tyla kepther sparring until three in the morning. They worked on basic footwork, defensive ripostes, and the key to reading an opponent’s shoulders instead of their blade before any striking lessons were imparted. Ingrid bled, sweated, and had the wind knocked out of her twice, but rest was only permitted when it became obvious her exhaustion was making it impossible for any cemented learning—her arms and legs too unresponsive to instill any muscle memory.
Just as fast as she’d been thrust into it, Ingrid’s training had ceased.
“That’s it?” she asked, hopelessly out of breath. “Come on, I can… I can keep going.”
Tyla crossed her arms, admiring her tutee’s spirit. “No need.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means there’s no need,” Tyla responded flatly. “You’ve hit your ceiling. It’s not going to get any better than this.” She glared at her, almost daring her to question her again.
Ingrid didn’t. She was too tired. The sword suddenly felt impossibly difficult to hold in her hand, and she thought about throwing it to the ground, but settled on asking one more question: “What was the point of this, then?”
“To give you a little confidence. If the rest of us are killed, now you’ll have a small sliver of hope for escape.” Along with the icy delivery, there was a calm, friendly assurance in the way Tyla spoke of death.
The distractions were dissolving around them. The deadly, nearly suicidal mission was around the corner, and these attempts at humor, Ingrid realized, were Tyla’s defense mechanism.
This was war. As unbelievable as it felt for Ingrid to think it, let alone say it out loud,shewas at war. Thrust carelessly in the center of the battlefield at a pivotal moment, when soldiers had two choices. Be afraid. Or remove emotion entirely.
“You didn’t tell me much about Sylan,” she said with urgency. Other than the fact that he was powerful and feared by most, they hadn’t taken time to discuss him. “Why is he called the Bastard Prince?”
Tyla took a kneeling position to rest her legs, massaging her calf gently. “He’s not Makkar’s true son. He’s an orphan, adopted and awarded the title. I hate him and what he stands for, but he earned it. He was born in a dark and unforgiving place I can’t imagine having to spend one night in, let alone grow up in. The marshes of Vargosinn. The same place infested by those creatures that now inhabit the Heartwood Forest. And he survived it all alone.”
She spoke of the Viator general with an odd reverence, and as his story came out, Ingrid could see why. Without the help of any family or allies, a too-young Sylan survived countless horrors. He fought his way through the long trek to Hydor and enlisted in Makkar’s army at the age of thirteen. By fifteen, he was promoted to General. And by seventeen, he led all of Hydor’s military. His rank only below King Makkar himself.
Ingrid shivered a bit. “So Makkar named him the heir to his throne? Or does he have children of his own?”
“He has many children. Both sons and daughters,” Tyla responded. “Though none of them are favored as much as Sylan is. Without Sylan, Makkar never would’ve been able to seize the territories he has in the last five years. So, yes, that psychopath will likely take over the crown, if ever Makkar falls.” Tyla fidgeted with the forearm plate of her practice armor. “He is ruthless. Unnaturally fast. Rumors say he is a wind-wielder, able to ride currents and disappear into thin air. Others say he’s inexplicably immune to magic. But that doesn’t cover the most lethal thing about him. He is, undoubtedly, the greatest swordsman alive. And he’s only getting better. I told you he started leading at a young age, and that wasn’t that long ago.”
Ingrid gripped her sword handle tightly. “How old is he?” She’d assumed they were all ancient, that an immortal race would certainly revere the eldest of them, or at the very least put them in higher positions.
“Younger than me and Rai,” Tyla said with a rocking of her head. “Took command a little over fifteen years ago. So he’s still improving. Always training. Honing. But he does bleed. If you find yourself face-to-face with him, don’t forget that.”
“Meaning I can beat him?” Ingrid asked with mock-cockiness.
