Page 63 of Black Wing and Shadows
Of course, this fucking prick again. I felt Zane’s rage surge through the bond. He heard it from where he was. Our squad moved together toward the mat that Gile pointed at. I stepped onto the mat, pulling daggers into both hands. I wasn’t holding back like I had in the past. I was done with this guy’s bullshit. Zane moved next to the mat, standing by Lili. I couldn’t focus on him or let his feelings distract me. I stacked those blocks in my mind, blocking him out. Asmoth stared at me with the same anger as before. He pulled out a dagger and charged forward. I didn’t think he wanted to spar. I was pretty sure he planned to kill me.
He knocked me onto my back quickly. I wasn’t surprised since he towered over me. I felt pain shooting up my spine, and my head hit the mat with a force that made it feel like my brain rattled inside my skull. My eyes fluttered in response to the pain. I couldn't die today. It wasn't in my cards.Fuck him. Fuck this. He reached back to start landing punches. I covered my head.
“Get up, Auriella!” Zane’s shout cut through me. Like I was lying there for fun.
I bucked my hips under him, straining for leverage, but his weight pinned me. He snatched my right hand, wrenched the dagger free, and shoved it aside. I swung my left at his ribs. He knocked it down like swatting a fly. My chest heaved, fury boiling hot. I refused to stop moving, refused to let him trap both arms.
He leaned in close, shadow filling my vision, eyes burning with the thrill of having me under him. My heart raced, pounding so loud it filled my skull. Rage lit in me—I hated that look, hated that I was losing ground. I snapped my forehead into his nose, bone cracking against bone. Blood gushed down, spilling across my face. For a second, I thought I had him.
But he roared, half in pain, half in triumph, and bore down harder. His grip clamped iron on my arm, his weight crushing the fight out of me. My calf burned where I twisted wrong, every breath ragged and shallow. The dagger point pressed at my throat—not deep, but deep enough to remind me how close I was to the end.
I thrashed once, twice, pure fury pushing me to keep fighting, but his strength swallowed mine. My muscles gave out. My vision blurred. My pride screamed louder than my lungs.
“Tap, bitch,” he growled, low and certain.
“Fuck you,” I hissed back. My nails dug into the mat, body shaking.
But in the end, my palm slapped down. Tap.
The sound cracked through the silence. He released me and rose, blood dripping from his nose. My chest heaved, rage clawing through me. I sat there shaking, humiliated, furious with him, furious with myself. The fight wasn’t lost—it was stolen.
And I swore I’d take it back.
Zane stood over me, hand outstretched. I gritted my teeth and took it, hauling myself to my feet. My body ached, my pride worse, but I refused to let him see me broken.
I wasn’t sorry for the fight. He’d pressed me hard, and I hated that I’d tapped. What burned wasn’t the loss itself—it was how close I’d come, how easily he’d forced me down. Rage coiled tight in my chest, hot enough to choke. Let them all see it. Let them all know I wouldn’t be underestimated again.
I met Zane’s eyes. Worry lined his face as he searched mine. I dropped my shields, forcing the bond open, and let him feel the storm I held back—shame, fury, and the promise that next time, I wouldn’t lose.
“I am fine.”
“You’re covered in blood.”
“None of it is mine.”
I lifted my shirt and wiped the blood off my face, then bent over to gather my daggers. I smeared the blades clean against the fabric before sliding them back into their sheaths. My legs carried me toward my squad.
Lili stared at me, brows furrowed, concern plain in her eyes. Savage—that was what she called me. Maybe she wasn’t wrong. Maybe something inside me had always been off. I’d never grieved the way others did. Death didn’t rattle me, not most of the time. Some losses cut sharp, like my mother’s, a wound that never closed. But strangers? Enemies? I’d weep over a wounded animal long before a Fae. Animals had never shown me cruelty.
Still, a question gnawed at me. Why hadn’t he finished me? He’d tried before, and no one would’ve stopped him. He could have driven the blade down, ending me with impunity. Instead, he let me walk away. That unsettled me more than the fight itself.
We had plenty of matches left. I forced myself to shake it off. No point in dwelling.
CHAPTER 25
It was the first day of autumn. Except for summer, each equinox was celebrated just like the first day of lectures. This year, the celebration was planned for September twenty-seventh, a Saturday evening. Over the past few weeks of lectures, we had been doing the same activities—sparring, climbing mountains, attending lectures, sparring more, and falling down the mountain. On October first, regardless of the day, the Riders would climb the Flier’s Rite of Passage. We were only days away from that.
Current events class involved a lot of debating of the brewing war between Yebel and Rudemont. We all piled in there each morning, this morning was no different. As a Flight Guide, I had moved to the upper rows with the other cadet leadership. Today it was only Melamora leading the class, bravely taking all of us on.“Humans do not fight as we do. They breed armies by the tens of thousands, trained for lines and volleys. They rely on steel and powder, on ships and engines that can cross the ocean and fire upon us from distances even a Rider cannot close unscathed. In the last decade, they have perfected machines that launch storms of arrows tipped with alchemical fire—what the troops call iron rain.”
She let the words hang, her eyes sweeping the lecture hall.
“Against us, they know they cannot match sorcery or dragon fire. So, they turn to numbers, industry, and endurance. Where a Fae soldier may fight for three centuries, a human army replaces itself every twenty years. When one wave dies, another rises behind it.”
A Historian cadet raised his hand. “Then why are we not already invaded?”
“Because,” Melamora said, “power is not only measured in numbers. A single bonded Rider with phoenix or dragon fire can break a fleet. A ward woven by a Sorcerer can turn aside cannon shots. But do not mistake our strengths for invincibility. The humans adapt. Every year they bring new weapons across the sea, and every year they press closer.”
Professor Melamora’s voice carried across the tiers. “Intelligence suggests the humans are experimenting with blood rituals—binding their soldiers to magic stolen from the land itself. These rites may prolong life, may twist humans into something that heals from wounds no mortal should survive.”
