Page 82 of Ocean of Ink
Wren’s gaze floated to Castien, the one responsible for her strong beginning. He was engaged in battle with Percilean, while Finn watched with an intensity he did not usually possess. Castien moved with a kind of grace that made his movements simultaneously sharp and fluid. All the while, she saw his lips moving. He was likely instructing Percilean the same way he had her. A spark of jealousy in her chest surprised her. She quickly looked back at her friends.
“Thank you, Cyprus,” Wren said with a soft smile. “But Kierana is right to critique me; I have much to improve.”
“You are new to the art,” Cyprus encouraged her again. “With time and practice, you will become proficient.”
Wren almost laughed, but then she recalled Castien’s words.
You can be a fighter if you want to be.
He made it sound so simple. Decide, and then it was done. But Wren had spent much of her life deprived of such opportunities, and in the face of choosing for herself, she was uncertain ofhow.
“I hope you are right, Cyprus.”
“Yes, yes, you will get better,” Kierana said in an exasperated tone. “That is why we are practicing, to do just that. Now, ready yourself again, it is my turn.”
Wren suppressed a laugh at her friend’s forthright demeanor.
“Very well.”
For the remainder of class, Wren focused entirely on the task at hand. So much so that she forgot to search for an opportunity to give Castien her most recent letter. She would have to find another time, she supposed. Or perhaps she could instruct Blossom to be discreet.
Cool sweat dripped down her back beneath her dress as she made her way to the weapons rack. Kierana and Cyprus had gone to lunch, as had most of the students. Wren told her friends she wished to bathe away the sweat and grime in lieu of taking lunch with them. Even without the addition of blood,swordfighting was a dirty sport. Wren longed for the scent of lavender soap.
“You’ve improved,” Castien’s silken voice startled Wren as he stepped from behind the weapons rack. It was unfair how he could move silently and was undetectable by her Curse.
“Thank you,” she breathed as she placed her sword in the spot she had taken it from at the beginning of class. “Kierana and Cyprus are good teachers.”
Wren would compliment Ivanhild, but thus far, the professor seemed keen on letting the students teach each other through experience more than him instructing. He had even left before class ended today, putting Kierana in charge. Perhaps that was part of his genius, though.
“And me?” Castien asked as he circled behind Wren to come to her opposite side. “Did my lesson prove helpful?”
His inky curls were tousled from the wind and exercise. He looked wild, but in control all the same.
“I am tempted to lie and say it did not, because you are clearly looking to inflate your ego, which is already far too large.”
“I was simply inquiring about my instruction’s usefulness, so that I did not offer unwelcome help,” he replied with a smirk.
“Is that what you are doing?” Wren asked with a skeptical brow. “Offering aid?”
Castien grabbed the sword Wren had just set down and balanced the bottom of the hilt in the center of his palm before propelling it upward and snatching it out of the air.
“I did write that I wished to spar with you.”
“Yes, well, I am afraid that will have to wait, as I am barely skilled enough to go against Cyprus when he–as Kierana so kindly put it–was going easy on me.”
Castien spun the sword in his hand, the whipping motion of the blade disturbing the curls that had escaped Wren’s hairpins.
“I am capable of holding back.” His dark gaze met Wren’s. Her shadows rose to greet his. They both knew restraint well. “I am the best in the academy, though Kierana and Cyprus are admittedly a close second and third. If you desire a high mark, I can assist you in obtaining it.”
Wren was exhausted. She wished to go to her chambers and soak in the bath while drinking tea. The icy cold of days prior had abated, but the briny air coming off the rolling Tides still stung her cheeks and made her bones ache. And yet, she found herself saying, “Perhaps an extra sparring session would be beneficial.”
Castien drew his sword. The soft scrape of metal was barely heard over the ever-crashing waves against the cliffside. He wet his lips and tasted the salty air. Flexed and curled his fingers. He took in Wren’s appearance with a calculating eye rather than the softer one he typically viewed her through. His Gift scrawled her weak points in the air as he circled where she stood in the middle of the field. She had many.
“Do you know how to dance?” Castien asked as he came to face her again.
She looked at him with a quizzical brow. “I have been taught many of the common ballroom dances, yes.”
“Fighting and dancing are rather similar in nature,” Castien noted. “There is a give and take, an ebb and flow, to both.”
