Page 109 of Black Wing and Shadows
The sparring ring was dimly lit with torches hissing softly along the weathered walls. Eli stood there, leaning against the railing with that familiar, easy smirk that hadn’t changed since childhood. He had always been quicker than me and sharper with his blade, and he knew it.
“You look like you're about to snap,” Eli said as I stepped into the circle. He straightened, tossing me a dulled training sword. “Lucky for you, I’m in the mood to break something.”
I caught the sword in one hand, rolling the grip in my palm, feeling the weight. “Good. Because if I don’t bleed this out, I’ll go mad.”
His brows raised just slightly. “Her again?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He knew me too well.
Eli grinned, feral. “Then fight me like you’d fight the thought of her.”
I swung harder than I should have, pouring all my frustration, craving, and unmet desire into each hit. Eli responded equally, sparks flying as our blades collided. He pushed me back, but I managed to shove him off, sweat already trailing down my back.
“You’re sloppy,” he barked, laughing between sidesteps. “She’s in your head, Zane.”
“She’s always in my head,” I growled, pushing forward, slamming my weight into him.
He staggered, regained his footing, then smirked. “Good. Hold onto that. Let it sharpen you, not drown you.”
We kept at it until my arms burned and my lungs heaved, until the sting of each strike dulled the storm inside. When we finally broke apart, panting and grinning like idiots, I felt the fire inside me settle—not gone, never gone, but contained.
Eli slapped my shoulder as we left the ring. “Better?”
I sheathed the dulled sword, shaking the sweat from my hair. “For now.”
However, the truth was that sparring was only a temporary solution. No fight, no bruises, no blades could quiet the deeper hunger. The one that belonged to Auri alone.
CHAPTER 38
I tugged my jacket tighter against the chill as my wing and I cut across the courtyard toward the dining hall. The first rotation on breakfast always meant the place was quiet, the air sharp with the scent of wood smoke and the promise of coffee. My stomach growled, eager for food.
Then I saw him.
Initially, my mind tried to tell me he had just collapsed. Maybe he fainted from exhaustion or hunger. But the stillness felt wrong. Too wrong. He lay sprawled across the courtyard stones, eyes open and glassy, staring into nothing. His neck bent at an impossible angle for a living body. Blood pooled beneath him, but it was the wound that truly froze me.
His chest was ripped open, not by blade or claw, but seared—blackened. The mark wasn’t clean. It crawled out from his sternum in burned veins, curling the fabric of his uniform like parchment too close to flame. The edges still smoked faintly, a sickly scent burning the back of my throat.
Gods.
Gasps and screams erupted around me as everyone froze, boots scraping on the stone. No one dared to step closer. I couldn’t look away. I had seen death before—training mishaps, brutal falls, cadets pushing themselves too hard on the mountain. But this—this was no accident.
My bond stirred uneasily in my chest, like both Esme and Zane sensed my distress.
“Gods,” someone whispered. “Who would…?”
My hands trembled at my sides. Whoever had done this hadn’t just killed him. They left him here, in the open, as if they were saying, "I’m here, and no one is safe."
No one moved at first. The courtyard held its breath. Then the whispers started.
“Was it sabotage?”
“Training accident, it has to be.”
“No—no one dies like that.”
I took a step back, my boots scraping stone. My pulse thundered in my ears. This wasn’t training. I knew it down to my bones. Someone had done this.
“Clear the courtyard!” an instructor barked from across the yard, but his voice actually cracked at the sight.
