Page 12 of Black Wing and Shadows
“You know I have you, right?” He growled in my ear.
“Ha. I am fighting until the very end.” I snapped back. He didn’t know how bothered I was at the moment. And I was hot and bothered in all the right places.
He brushed my hair aside and leaned in close to my ear. “Does my presence bother you as much as yours bothers me?” He gently pushedhimself up, as if admiring me. I heard him take a deep breath, as if he were startled.
“What?” I didn’t know if that was in response to his slight gasp or to the question.
“That is an interesting mark…”
“Oh, it is a birthmark, my dad has one too.” My father had a similar one—a delicate crescent of five tiny dots positioned behind our right ears.
“I… um… got to go.” Before I could even respond, he was on his feet and shuffling out the door.
What the hell was that about? Maybe he realized we were starting to cross a line and hesitated to go further. I was glad he pulled away. My self-control often flailed, making my reactions unpredictable. I stood upright, wiped the sweat off my forehead, grabbed my sparse belongings, and headed for the busy dining hall to get breakfast. My stomach ached with hunger, as if it agreed with my decision.
CHAPTER 6
The rest of the weekend was boring and restful. Most of us in the second and fifth squads wandered the halls and outside grounds. Taking everything in. Monday arrived too fast, and we resumed our formations and physical fitness training. We spent the majority of weeks three and four in the sparring gym, sparring with each other.
We also received basic medical training. While we had potential Healers among us, they communicated with the rest of us to stabilize the person. During one match, two male cadets were competing against each other when the larger one executed a gnarly armbar that I had never seen before.
I was standing at the edge of the mat when the snap cracked through the room. A scream ripped after it. The cadet with the armbar let go at once, dropping to his knees with apologies. We steadied the injured arm, hauled him up, and they rushed him to the infirmary.
Later, another cadet locked a leg, and the pop of a knee blowing out made my stomach turn. The joint bent wrong, clear out of place.
Over the next two weeks, I sparred seven times. I won four, lost three. The victories felt sharp, a rush in my chest, proof I belonged here. The losses stung deeper. Each tap burned with the reminder that no matter how much I trained, someone could still choke me out or twist me apart. I always chased the throat, because oxygen ended fights. Still, every time I wound up on my back, chin jammed tight to my chest, I knew how close I stood to the edge. Winning fed my pride. Losing kept the fear alive.
Week five arrived, and everything began to fall into place. I wasn't sure if I had been assigned to a platoon with a more lenient drill instructor or what, but Pascal didn't yell at us nearly as much as some of the other instructors.I wasn't complaining. He still shed tears and tossed our bunks, but over the last few weeks, his behavior had become much calmer. Our small second squad stayed close, sticking together during the various demanding drills we completed.
Week five, according to my dad, was expected to be another brutal and exhausting week. So far, it hadn't been as challenging as he had warned, but his motto remained,‘Prepare for the worst, and when it isn't so bad, you'll feel victorious.’
We stood in formation, prepared for our tasks that day. Pascal was in front of our platoon, which now had ninety-eight members.
“Welcome to the Pass of Be^te Noire, you have fifteen minutes to pack your rucks, preparing to be in the field for the next four days,” he yelled across our platoon.
Four fucking days. What were we about to endure? We all rushed to our barracks and started packing. The room was chaotic, filled with various conversations and questions.
“What do we need to pack?”
“What are we going to be eating for four days?”
“This sounds like it will be a miserable time.”
I could hear the worry of some of the cadets, and frankly, I was a little worried too. They all rushed back down to the courtyard and formed up again.
Pascal looked us all over, gave us a worrisome smile, and afterwards he turned and shouted, “Forward March”.
We followed synchronously behind, five cadets in a row. We made it through the courtyard and the outdoor stadium and outside the college walls.
"Right turn,” he shouted. The first row turned and moved forward. The second row marched forward, then turned right and moved forward. I wondered what the view would have been like from the sky. Formations had a unique beauty of formality to them.
"Right turn!” he shouted again as we headed toward the rugged mountains behind the Bravo Wing. The mountain pass was breathtaking,equally mesmerizing both during the day and when illuminated by moonlight. As I looked out early that morning, I could see the narrow pathway carved into the steep mountain that zigzagged upward. It dawned on me that we would attempt to climb this challenging slope.
"Halt, fall in,” Pascal shouted.
"Over the next four days, you will be marching up this mountain. It will take nearly two days to reach the top and two days to return. There are traps along the mountain. You will need to watch your steps and work as a unit. You will be released with your squads staggered based on your obstacle ranking. There are twelve caves spread out around the midway region. They are first-come, first-served. You can choose to take the first one you came across or the seventh. Choose wisely how long you rest. You can pass other squads on the mountain. While this is a competition, do not intentionally cause harm to any other member. However, not all of you will return alive. Watch your steps. You are due back down here by twenty-two hundred, Thursday evening. Fifth squad, you're up first. The rest of you, rest.”
Everyone broke into their groups and started chatting amongst themselves. We ranked second, which means we would start next.
