Page 48 of Cerulean Truth (Sapere #1)

TWENTY-THREE

EMMA

“NOOOOOOOOO!”

I woke up screaming. Again.

My heart was pounding against my chest, sweat soaked my body, my breath came in ragged gasps, and my hands trembled with residual fear.

“It wasn’t real, it wasn’t real, it wasn’t real,” I muttered, over and over again, desperately clinging to the reassurance that it was just a nightmare.

I tried to discern anything through the darkness, which indicated it was still the middle of the night.

Glancing at my Nexus, the yellow drops confirmed my suspicion: one thirty in the morning.

I sighed heavily, the weight of six weeks of night terrors bearing down on me, leaving me properly and effectively exhausted .

My eyes threatened to close again, but I forced myself to push back against the encroaching drowsiness. The last thing I wanted was to slip back into that same haunting dream. I had to remain awake for just a few more minutes, until the risk had passed.

Drawing in deep breaths, I focused on counting the agonizing minutes, determined to keep my eyes open. Until the heaviness of my lids won out against my fear and I fell back asleep.

I woke up at five thirty a.m.

Crap . I had overslept. Again.

I had never been a stranger to early hours, I’d gotten my fair share of short nights during all my internships at those law firms, but James’s schedule was insane .

He had me starting in the training room at six in the morning. Six . Which meant I had to get up at five every morning in order to look presentable, as James seemed to forget not everyone could pull off his “just out of bed”-look.

Darn it, I was going to have to run to make it in time.

As I ran down the stairs toward the connection-floors, still not able to translate myself a portal (or anything else for that matter), I couldn’t shake the feeling I was forgetting something.

Oh well, no time to dwell on it now.

I arrived at the training room all but ten minutes late, and short of breath.

“You’re late.” He grunted, his ever-so-charming mood shining through, “Where were you?”

I blinked. Where the heck did he think I was?

“Harvesting organs.” I deadpanned, dropping my bag with a dramatic sigh. He ignored my sarcasm, and I ignored his ignorance. Then why ask?

“Where’s your Skindo? I asked you to bring it along,” he pressed on.

Double crap. I knew I’d forgotten something.

“It’s in my dorm,” I replied sullenly, not exactly thrilled about the impending James-tornado.

“Really? What’s it doing there?” he retorted like he was a school principal, scolding his seven-year-old student.

I squinted. “Clearly having more fun than me.”

James let out an exasperated sigh, not the least bit amused. “Can you please go get it? And hurry the fuck up, haven’t got all fucking day.”

Oh the swearing…. At least he’d used the word please. Sort of.

Still out of breath from running down, I groaned as I turned around, making my way back up to my dorm.

That darn Skindo. Why did I have to bring it anyway? Maybe because it worked without translation and I still couldn’t translate unless my life depended on it. Which hadn’t happened in the last six weeks, which is when James started training me.

Six weeks of hell. Six weeks under Walker’s dictatorship. I wasn’t brave enough to call him Caesar to his face, but behind his back, I had no trouble comparing him to the greatest dictator of Rome.

Every morning at six, he had me doing push-ups and running laps. I’d been a decent runner before but I still spent half my life in front of a computer. By all Offensive means, I was definitely out of shape.

After cardio-and power training, he usually walked me through some self-defense-techniques. I didn’t understand half of what he explained but kneeing him in the groin as often as I could, really helped with my mood.

This took up half our time together, whereas the other half was spent with him trying to lure out my translation, and by me, failing at it as often as I could. Which left me feeling very frustrated and insecure.

James on the other hand, proved to be rather patient as a teacher, though he didn’t really believe in the soft approach. Between his bossing around and my stubbornness, we bickered and fought more than we actually talked.

As I entered my dorm, I spotted the Skindo immediately, right where I’d left it on my nightstand.

I quickly grabbed the trident lookalike and ran back out. James insisted I should feel honored to train with a Skindo. Apparently, Offensives weren't even allowed to glimpse at one until they reached the Advanced classes.

Just by looking at it though, I never would’ve guessed its power but I had been reading up for weeks on all things magi related and I remembered a chapter on this weapon clearly from the handbook on Offensives:

“ In the realms of magi, Offensives are revered as elite warriors, their prowess in combat matched only by their mastery of magic.

Those trained in Cyclos are considered the most feared and fearless.

Among their arsenal of weapons, none are as iconic or impressive as the Skindo—a compact yet deadly hand weapon that bears a striking resemblance to a trident.

The Skindo’s five-pronged design exudes both elegance and lethality, each prong a finely crafted crescent blade extending from the central hub with razor-sharp precision.

Despite its compact size, the Skindo retains an imposing presence, its polished surface gleaming with the promise of swift and deadly strikes in close combat.

But the Skindo is more than just a weapon—it is a symbol of the Offensives' bond with translation itself.

As they graduate from their rigorous training, each Offensive earns the right to 'grow' their own Skindo, which makes it a personal weapon imbued with their own energy.

And with it comes the tattoo sleeve—a canvas of intricate patterns and flowing lines that mirror the design of the Skindo, embellishing the left forearm of every Offensive.

When imbued with translation, each crescent blade of the Skindo can discharge independently, functioning as an extension of the Offensive’s will and moving with lethal precision, either in harmony or striking individually, as the situation demands.

As the Skindo is summoned into battle, it is translated out of the tattoo, after which the tattoo sleeve 'clicks' back into place, seamlessly aligning with the weapon to create a harmonious blend of opposing elements—grace and lethality, beauty and danger.

Together, they form a cohesive and visually striking ensemble that symbolizes the Offensives' mastery of both magic and martial prowess—a testament to their status as the most formidable warriors.”

It all sounded very impressive. Didn’t keep me from sticking my tongue out at it for making me run the stairs twice.

“I’m back!” I yelled, opening the door of the training room for the second time.

“Great. Just in time for dinner.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Can you dial down the dramatics please? It’s not even half past six.”

“I don’t care what time it is, Emma,” James snarled. “If I tell you to be here at six am, you’re here at six am, sharp. If I tell you to bring the Skindo, you bring the Skindo. If I tell you to jump off a roof, you jump off the fucking roof, got it?”

I glared at him. If I could strangle him and get away with it, I would. But I was pretty sure any attempt would end up in me being the one getting killed, so I bit my tongue and plotted my revenge internally.

“Now, get into position. Maybe a nice ass-kicking will motivate you to be on time tomorrow,” he grumbled.

“No cardio?” I asked, before taking off my sweater.

James stared for a second too long before answering and I fought a smile.

Since our training sessions started, there hadn’t been any more indicators of his attraction to me, and it left me feeling insecure.

Those prologued sideway glances were all the confirmation I got from at least a previous existing allure.

“If you want to run a few laps first, just say the word,” he replied dryly. I shook my head quickly, berating myself for my stupid remark.

I carefully stepped onto the mat, feeling the distinct shift from the canvas to the rest of the floor beneath my feet.

Aside from James and myself, the training room was completely empty.

The air was filled with the scent of sweat mixed with the crushed hopes and dreams of all failing magi like myself.

Maybe I was being dramatic, but whatever.

James stood on the other side of the octagon when he took off his shirt.

He. Took. Off. His. Shirt.

I swallowed hard.

Although I had always managed to stay professional in every work-related-situation—like during a week-long porn-marathon—I was only human.

Well…a maga, technically, but human, nonetheless.

And when faced with a guy like him, shirtless and ready to train me…

I found myself struggling to...well, I was simply not. ..

I sighed. I really had to tear my eyes away from his chiseled abs if there was to be any hope of me regaining some coherence.

James flexed his right forearm, the one completely covered by his tattoo.

I clutched my weapon more tightly, trying not to be too distracted by the muscles on display.

It took less than a second for his Skindo to “shoot out” from his tattoo and into his right hand.

But instead of holding on to it, he translated both his and mine to the corner of the room.

“We’ll focus on close combat first. Skindo’s later. Get into position,” he ordered. Great Gods. I hated his commanding tone. Half our time was spent bickering about exactly that.

"Oh, James," I said, as if I'd just remembered something important. "I'm so sorry about that head injury."

James eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"You know... the one that made you forget about the existence of the word 'please'?"