Page 17

Chapter 16

Selestina

T he morning comes too quickly, dragging me from a restless sleep. I sit up, already aware of what awaits me, combat class, bright and early. The mere thought of it sends a ripple of unease through my chest. Not because I’m unprepared, but because I’m too prepared. And here, in a place teeming with Tonalocas who would leap at any excuse to challenge me, standing out is the last thing I want.

I shove the blanket aside and dress quickly, pulling on black leggings and a fitted long sleeve top. I throw my hair up in a high ponytail, securing it tightly in place. I need to blend in, be unnoticed. But that won’t happen if I walk into combat at full strength. No, I need to dull my edges.

Exhaustion will do the trick.

The academy is shrouded in darkness as I slip out into the crisp morning air. The sky is an ink black, with only a sliver of the pale twin moonlight illuminating the sprawling grounds. Perfect. No one is awake yet, exactly as I planned.

My shoes strike the stone pathways in a steady rhythm as I start my run, heading toward the edge of the woods. The scent of damp earth and pine rises around me, mingling with the tang of iron that always seems to linger in the air here. The forest looms to my left. On my right, the academy stretches in stark contrast.

I pick up my pace as I pass the library. The courtyard comes next, a vast expanse of stone and trimmed hedges, silent without the usual bustle of students. My breathing evens out, a steady inhale and exhale, as the world blurs around me.

For a moment, it feels like I’m alone in the universe, untethered and free.

Then I hear it A soft cadence of footsteps behind me. My instincts kick in before my mind can catch up. My hand flies to the dagger strapped to my thigh, fingers curling around the hilt as I whirl around, muscles coiled and ready to strike.

It’s Matheus.

Our eyes lock for a moment, but his face is a blank canvas. He takes note of the dagger I’m palming before looking past me. There's no malice lurking there, no hidden agenda, just an eerie calmness that unsettles me more than any glare would have. He does not break stride, his gait steady and unhurried, as if my existence doesn't even register.

I loosen my grip on the dagger but keep my gaze fixed on him as I slow my pace, allowing him to pass. He does, without so much as a glance over his shoulder. I don't know whether to be more annoyed or relieved.

I fall into step behind him, my rhythm matching his, and the two of us run in silent tandem. The air between us charged, but not with animosity; it's an unspoken understanding. He's not following me. He's not challenging me. He's simply here to do what I'm doing: a morning run to clear his head, to prepare for the day ahead.

I study him from behind, my curiosity getting the better of me. Matheus has always seemed quiet, almost timid—a presence that lingers in the background rather than commanding the room.

His broad shoulders glisten with sweat, powerful muscles in his back flexing with each stride. He's shirtless, with scars on his skin catching the light. Not as many as my own, but enough to know he doesn’t have an easy life. His legs, exposed by the ridiculously short shorts he's wearing, move with a raw, animalistic power. There isn't an ounce of softness on him. Just lean, honed strength, like a predator in its prime.

I stumble slightly, caught off guard by the thought. He's not what I expected. Not at all. But he is a dragon nagual, so I guess he has to be ripped.

We run in silence; the world stirring to life around us. The first blush of dawn creeps over the horizon and paints the edges of the sky in soft golds and pinks. The chill in the air starts to dissipate, replaced by the warmth rising with the sun. By the time we finally make it onto the Combat Hall grounds, the academy is just waking. There’s a muffled murmur of voices and footsteps breaking the stillness.

We come to a stop outside the door, both breathing hard but otherwise silent. Matheus doesn't turn to me, doesn't even look in my direction; he just walks in with smooth, slow steps. His duffle is already waiting for him near the edge of the room with a bag, a towel, and a neatly folded shirt. He tugs the shirt on wordlessly; the fabric clinging to his still-damp skin.

I just stand there a moment longer. The silence stretches between us, heavy but not uncomfortable .

I step into the hall with the familiar scent of sweat and leather filling my lungs. The room is huge, with its stone walls lined with racks of weapons and training dummies that bear the scars of countless battles with students over the centuries. The floor is worn smooth by generations of students, gleaming in the early light. This is where we’ll test ourselves, where strength and skill will determine who rises and who falls.

As I prepare for what's to come, my eyes steal one last glance at Matheus. He's tying his shoes now, his movements precise. There's something about him that feels different. Not just his physical presence, but the quiet confidence he carries.

I shake the thought away and focus on my breathing, on the weight of my limbs, and the dull ache that is settling into my muscles. Exhaustion tugs at me, but that's the point. I've done what I set out to do; I'm not at my best. That’s exactly how I need to be if I want to survive this day unnoticed.

I go cold as the first few students trickle into the hall. My mask is pushed right back onto my face. Strong, silent, untouchable.

The first thing I notice about Professor Karr as he shuffles to the front of the room is his permanent scowl. He’s short and wiry, with a face like crumpled parchment and eyes that glint with annoyance and wisdom. His voice is sharp, cutting through the low hum of the room.

“I’m Professor Karr,” he barks, not bothering with pleasantries. “Take a weight. I want to see everyone’s skill set so I can pair you appropriately. Don’t waste my time. ”

His tone dares anyone to challenge him, and for a moment, the room hesitates. First years shuffle toward the weight racks in scattered clusters. I rise with them, keeping my movements measured. No need to stand out, no need to draw attention.

The squat bar catches my eye, its polished steel glinting under the dim overhead lights. Perfect. Not too flashy, not too subtle. I grab the plates, sliding them onto the bar with a deliberate clink. As I position myself under the bar, the familiar pressure settles across my shoulders.

I begin the first squat, my muscles burning in a way that feels almost comforting. Each repetition is a steady rhythm, the ache in my thighs and core a welcome distraction from the watchful eyes I know are scanning the room. I’ve done this countless times before—combat training at the Citadel made sure of that. My body knows the motions, but I keep my strength in check. There’s no room for mistakes, no room to reveal more than I should.

As I rise from another squat, I scan the room. Every first year student is here, scattered around the equipment, each trying to prove themselves or blend in. My gaze lingers on Nazriel, and, to my irritation, I find him staring back. His icy blue eyes lock on mine, as if he’s trying to peel back the layers I’ve carefully built around myself.

Evaline stands beside him, her head tilted in that practiced, coy way. She twirls a strand of her glossy blonde hair around her finger, her laugh a tinkling melody that’s meant to draw his attention. But he doesn’t spare her a glance. His focus remains entirely on me, his expression unreadable. Heat rises to my face, and I roll my eyes, breaking the connection as I rack the bar.

Before I can say anything, Professor Karr steps into my line of sight, his presence abrupt and unwelcome. His sharp eyes rake over me, his mouth set in a disappointed twist. “You can obviously do more than that,” he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only me to hear. He clicks his tongue, a sharp, disapproving sound, before walking away, his back hunched like he carries the weight of every incompetent student in the room.

Crap. I need to be more careful. The last thing I want is to give him, or anyone else , a reason to scrutinize me further. I turn my focus back to the weights, but a presence beside me sets my nerves on edge before I even look up.

“Princesa,” a voice drawls, smooth and languid.

I don’t need to turn to know who it is.

Tomas.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, keeping my expression neutral. He’s leaning against the rack beside me, all effortless grace and sharp edged confidence. His silver curls glint under the lights, catching the sheen of sweat on his pale skin. He’s not wearing much, a sleeveless top and tight shorts that stop three inches above his knee, it leaves little to the imagination. His red eyes gleam with amusement, his lips curled in a smirk that promises trouble.

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on your own workout?” I say, my tone cool, though my pulse quickens at his proximity.

“And miss this?” He gestures vaguely to the room, but it’s clear he means me. “Why would I do that?”

I let out a loud sigh slip. Something I feel I will do a lot in his presence. Tomas is a distraction, one I don’t have the luxury of entertaining. But he doesn’t move, his presence a persistent hum at the edge of my awareness.

“You’re holding back,” he says, his voice low, almost teasing. “I can tell.”

I pause, my fingers tightening around the barbell. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I roll my eyes. “Leave me the fuck alone, vamp.”

“Oh, you do.” He leans in slightly, his breath warm against my ear. “It’s written all over you, Princesa. You’re hiding something.”

The nickname grates against me. I straighten, meeting his gaze head on. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“Maybe not.” He admits, his smirk widening. “But I know enough. And I’m curious.” Can he stop saying he’s curious when it comes to me? Gods, how do I get rid of him?

I’m about to retort when movement catches my eye.

Nazriel, watching us from across the room. His expression is colder now, his jaw tight, and for a brief moment, I think I see something flash in his eyes. Jealousy? Disgust? It’s gone too quickly to tell.

Tomas follows my gaze, and his smirk turns into something sharper. “Ah, I see,” he murmurs. “The Ice Prince doesn’t like to share.”

I glare at him, confused by his words, my patience wearing thin. “Go bother someone else, Tomas.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, before finally stepping back. “As you wish, Princesa.”

I turn away from him, focusing on the barbell in front of me. My muscles ache, my heart pounds, and my mind races, but I force it all down, channeling the tension into motion. One lift, one breath, one step at a time.