Page 19 of Duskbound (Esprithean Trilogy #2)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Defense will always win out in the end," Vexa said, adjusting the straps of my leathers. We stood in a dimly lit preparation chamber, the sounds of the gathering crowd muffled by ancient stone walls. "Don't strike until you've tired them out. The Sentinels are trained to outlast their opponents—they'll be waiting for you to make the first mistake."

I nodded, trying to memorize every word. In a few minutes, I wouldn't have her counsel anymore. Or any of them.

"Remember," she continued, "the Generals aren't just looking for victories. They want to see control. Discipline." Her violet eyes met mine. "You've got the skill. Just don't let them see your fear."

"Or your tether," Effie added from where she leaned against the wall. "They're particularly strict about that."

"We have to go," Rethlyn's voice cut through the tension. He sat on a stone ridge that lined the wall of the chamber. "The trials are about to begin."

Something passed between him and Vexa—a look I couldn't quite interpret. Then Vexa squeezed my arm one last time. "Show them what you're made of. "

Rethlyn lingered, hanging in through the doorway. The look on his face seemed apologetic.

"You’re going to be fine," he said, giving me a soft smile

“Aether is with Lael, right?” I asked.

"Of course."

I sighed, something about that calmed my racing heart.

Rethlyn gave me one final glance before ducking out. Through the door, I could hear other voices now—the other candidates arriving.

We were back in the mountain, but the chamber from before had been transformed. Where the altar had stood now rose a fighting pit. An audience sat higher, looking down with eager expressions.

Above the main ring, four chairs had been positioned on a raised platform. The Generals of the Umbra sat—Urkin in the center, his face carved from stone, flanked by General Taliora of the Medic's Unit and Talon of the Archival Unit. In the fourth chair sat a man I didn't recognize, though I knew from Vexa's whispered advice the night before that this must be General Karis of the Scout's Regiment. She'd told me he could become a powerful ally if I managed to impress him today.

"We have time before they start," Lael said, settling beside me on one of the benches in the waiting area. "They always make us wait. Builds the tension, Uma says." He tried for a grin but it came out more like a grimace.

"How are Uma and Carden handling it?" I asked, grateful for the distraction. "Training without you?"

"Oh, Uma's convinced she could be here right now if they'd let her." His grin became more genuine. "Carden at least pretends to be patient about it." His expression softened. "Aether says they'll both be ready in a few years, though. Says Uma's got the makings of a real fighter, if she can learn to focus. "

"Aether said that?" I bit back a grin, thinking of Uma's boundless energy.

"Yeah," Lael said, his voice dropping. "I mean, I know what people say about him. But they don't see him teaching Carden how to fall properly, or spending extra time helping Uma with her forms. No one else does that." He picked at a loose thread on his leathers. "After my parents... when he found me in Croyg... he didn't have to help. But he did."

"I'm Kenna," a voice cut in. A woman had drifted closer. "Sorry to interrupt, but standing alone was getting a bit..." She glanced toward one of the practice areas where Valkan was now executing combat forms with his personal guards. "Uncomfortable."

A tall man lingered at the edge of our group, his sharp eyes never settling in one place for long. "Theron," he offered in a clipped tone, though he made no move to come closer.

"Not exactly the social type?" Kenna asked him with a hint of amusement.

His only response was to shift his gaze to another corner of the room, as if cataloging every shadow.

A young man stepped forward then, speaking so softly I had to lean in to hear him. "Soren," he said, then nodded toward a girl who hadn't stopped moving since she'd entered the chamber. Her hair was pulled back so severely it seemed to strain against her scalp. "And that's Mira. We came together."

Mira's only acknowledgment was a slight pause in her pacing.

"Where did you train?" Kenna asked, brushing a loose strand of onyx hair behind her ear. Her question seemed casual, but something sharper lurked beneath it.

"Here and there," Soren replied vaguely. His hands were calloused but precise in their movements, like someone used to detailed work. "Lately, wherever we could find shelter."

Mira's pacing brought her closer to our group. Her boots were worn nearly through, the leather cracked and stained. "We didn't all have the luxury of proper training," she said, her voice rough.

I noticed Kenna's smile falter slightly. "No," she said after a moment. "I suppose we didn't."

Theron scoffed, the sound drawing my attention back to him. He'd positioned himself against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the stone as if ready to spring away at any moment. Despite his height, there was something almost delicate about his features.

"Proper training hardly matters now," he said. His eyes fixed on something beyond us, and we all turned to look.

A different man approached, looking to be in his mid-twenties. His dark hair was long on top but shaved on the sides. He cast a curious glance over the group of us before his eyes fell on me. “Raven.” He nodded before sitting down.

In the practice ring, Valkan had stripped off his formal jacket. Even from here, I could see the unnatural pallor of his skin, the way his muscles moved too smoothly as he sparred with his guard. There was something wrong about it—something that made my stomach turn.

"They say his entire regiment fights like that," Kenna whispered, a shudder running through her. "Like they don't even feel pain."

"They don't." Mira's voice cut through the air like steel. She'd finally stopped pacing, her slight frame coiled with tension. "I've seen them."

A silence drifted over us for a few seconds.

"My sister..." Soren started, then stopped himself, running a hand through his dark curls. "She used to say there are worse things than dying." His voice had dropped so low I almost missed it.

"Used to?" Kenna asked.

But Soren just shook his head, his shoulders hunching slightly.

"Look," Lael broke in, clearly trying to change the subject. "The Sentinels are starting their warm-ups." He nodded toward the other practice rings where black-clad figures moved through combat forms.

I studied their movements, trying to memorize each stance, each transition. These were the soldiers we'd have to face. Some bore visible scars, others moved with the telltale signs of old injuries. All of them carried themselves with the kind of confidence that should be intimidating, but for some reason, there was a touch of—something, maybe sadness—in their movements.

"They're slower than usual," Theron observed, his analytical tone betraying more than casual interest. "The drought affects them too."

"You seem to know a lot about their fighting style," Kenna said, arching a brow.

Something flickered across Theron's face—too quick to read. "I make it my business to know things."

Across the pit, Valkan's milky eyes shifted in our direction. Though he kept moving through his forms, there was something predatory in the way his attention settled on our group. His personal guards were a blur of movement around him, their skin sharing that same sheen.

"Stop staring," Raven muttered, "he enjoys it."

"And how would you know that?" Kenna asked, but her practiced smile had faded completely.

Before Raven could answer, the metallic sound of steel on stone rang through the chamber. One of the Sentinels had struck their weapon against the pit's edge. The room fell silent as the last of the nobles filtered into their seats above.

"Finally," Mira breathed, but I noticed her hands were trembling slightly.

I looked up at the platform where the Generals sat. Urkin's face was unreadable as he surveyed the candidates, but there was something calculating in General Karis's gaze as it swept over us. A man in Archivist robes approached, carrying a black cloth bag.

"Well," Kenna whispered, straightening her shoulders. "I suppose we're about to find out who's actually ready for this."

Lael's hand found mine and squeezed once before letting go. When I glanced at him, his face had settled into something determined. In that moment, he no longer looked like the boy Aether had rescued, but someone older.

The first number was about to be drawn.

Urkin stood, his voice carrying across the chamber. "Candidates, step forward."

We formed a line before the Generals' platform, our shadows stretching long behind us in the torchlight. The Archivist moved down the line with his black cloth bag. Kenna reached in first, her grace faltering slightly as she drew her lot. A small breath of relief escaped her when she eyed the stone.

The bag moved to Theron next. His stoic nature never wavered as he selected his stone, though I noticed his jaw tighten at whatever number he saw. Mira snatched hers quickly, like removing a bandage, while Soren's hand seemed to tremble as he reached in.

When it was my turn, the fabric felt rough against my fingers. I drew out a small black stone, its surface worn smooth by years of use. The number three was carved into its surface—my stomach lurched, but at least I wouldn't be first.

Lael was last before Valkan. His fingers closed around his stone with determination, but I saw the color drain from his face as he read the number.

One.

He was first.

Lael descended into the pit, each step echoing against the stone. The Sentinel circled slowly as if she was testing him—watching how he handled the pressure of her approach.

For a moment, neither moved. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft scrape of boots on stone. Then the Sentinel struck—so fast I almost missed it. Her fist shot toward Lael's face, but he was already moving, ducking under the blow. He spun away, maintaining his distance, his feet never crossing as he moved.

The Sentinel's lips curved slightly.

She pressed forward, forcing Lael a few steps back with a series of quick jabs. He blocked each one, his movements precise but defensive. I could almost hear Vexa's voice: Let them tire themselves out. Wait for the opening.

A kick swept toward his legs. Lael jumped, using the momentum to create space between them. Smart. But the Sentinel had anticipated this. Her next strike caught him in the shoulder, sending him stumbling back. The crowd above murmured.

Lael recovered quickly, rolling with the impact. When he came up, his eyes were sharp with focus. The nervous boy from moments ago had vanished, replaced by something harder.

The Sentinel's next attack was a feint—a punch that transformed mid-motion into an elbow strike. But Lael saw it coming. He stepped inside her guard, a move that reminded me of Aether, and used her own momentum against her. The Sentinel hit the ground hard.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

The Sentinel straightened slowly. For a moment, she simply studied him. Then she nodded—a sharp, respectful gesture—and stepped back.

"Enough," Urkin's voice rang out. "Well fought, both of you."

Lael's shoulders sagged with relief. As he climbed out of the pit, I could see his hands trembling. But he'd done it. He'd won.

"Candidate Theron," Urkin called. "You're next."

Theron fought with odd precision, like someone who had studied combat rather than lived it—like it was an academic pursuit. When he eventually won, there wasn't even a flicker of emotion on his face—just a slight nod, as if confirming something he already knew.

"Foreign-born," Urkin's voice echoed through the chamber. "Step forward."

With my heart hammering in my chest, I descended into the pit. The wall’s domed ceiling seemed higher from down here, the nobles' faces blurring into shadow above. The Sentinel who stepped forward was different from the others—taller, broader, with scars that riddled his frame.

"Commander Darius leads our combat training," Urkin announced, a hint of something sharp in his tone. "He has graciously offered to test our... foreign candidate."

The silence that followed felt heavier than before. I caught Lael's worried glance from above, saw Kenna's lips press into a hard line. Even Valkan's milky eyes had settled on the pit with renewed interest.

Movement in the shadows of the upper level caught my eye. Vexa gripped Aether's arm, her face tight with concern as she whispered something urgent. Even from this distance, I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his golden eyes had turned sharp and dangerous. Effie's lips moved quickly, but whatever she was saying only made Aether's expression darken further.

I forced my breathing to stay even, remembering all of my training. But as Darius began to circle, silent and lethal, I realized no amount of training could have ever prepared me for this.

"Begin."

Darius struck like a viper, giving me no time to think. I barely managed to block his first blow, the impact sending shockwaves up my arm. He was testing me, but not like the other Sentinels had tested their opponents. This was different.

I spun away from his next strike, trying to create distance, but he followed ruthlessly. Each movement flowed into the next, leaving no room for error, no space to breathe. My arms burned from blocking hits that felt like they could shatter stone.

Darius's next combination drove me backward. I ducked under a strike that would have knocked me unconscious, the force of it whistling past my ear. His fist connected with the empty air where my head had been, and the sound of his knuckles cracking echoed through the chamber like breaking bones.

He was going to kill me, I realized. Or come as close as he could without actually crossing that line. This wasn't a test—this was a message.

I couldn't catch my breath. Every time I tried to create distance, he was there, his strikes coming faster, harder. My arms felt like lead, muscles screaming from the pain of deflecting his blows.

His next combination came too fast to track. A feint turned into an elbow strike that caught my temple. The world tilted sideways. I stumbled, trying to regain my footing, but he was already there. His knee drove into my ribs with crushing force. The impact knocked what little air remained from my lungs.

I felt my web curl around my spine, acting out of its own volition—braiding and twisting, desperate to protect me. But I couldn't let it loose. One slip, one moment of losing control, and I'd be disqualified. I used every last ounce of strength to force it down, to keep it contained. But that moment of distraction was all Darius needed.

I saw the final strike coming but couldn't move fast enough to avoid it. His fist connected with my jaw, and darkness exploded behind my eyes. The last thing I registered was the cold stone rushing up to meet me, and then nothing at all.