Page 12

Digging Deeper

“ T alendir called you that,” I blurt out.

“Did he? Didn’t he say Kelandil?”

“Obviously not. How else would I know your half-name? Come on, múera erecn’a isn’ar a. You’re not giving up, are you?”

“Give up? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

I sweep Voenriel through the air, and Keelan counters with his blade. Res. Black. A sleek windsword made of steel, unadorned and efficient. His gaze shifts from Voenriel to his own weapon.

Res is lighter, giving him the advantage of speed. My blade is heavier, and my muscles are smaller. And then there’s the biggest disadvantage: my vision. One eye is out of commission, leaving me vulnerable.

The fog clings thick and heavy, coiling around Keelan’s feet, rendering the other participants ghostlike and the audience invisible. It creeps into my throat, tightening it, and snakes into my nose and lungs, leaving me lightheaded, weak, and disoriented.

No one else seems bothered by the fog. The other sun elves thrive on light and falter only in darkness and cold. Those things don’t drain me. But this, this fog, is mine to bear. My worst enemy, second only to Akares.

The other participants are scattered, some sitting on the ground, others resting against solitary tree trunks. Pale, grayish shapes at the edges of my vision. Blurred. Unimportant.

“Well, then, let’s begin,” Keelan says.

I clutch the rough leather handle, my palm slick with sweat. My breaths come shallow and uneven. I force myself to see Voenriel as a part of me, to focus beyond the fog. Ignore it.

Stay sharp. Wide stance. Steady arms. Firm grip.

Keelan dips his head and charges, his blade arcing toward my shoulder.

Right! Lift your arm!

Clang!

The strike reverberates through my left arm, rattling down to the bone. The sharp sound shatters the silence, sending a flock of birds fluttering into the sky. Voenriel is strong, heavy, and unwavering, moving seamlessly with me and yielding to my every motion.

Is this how it’s meant to feel? To wield a weapon that truly answers?

Keelan strikes again. And again. And again. Each blow is swift and relentless, always aimed to the right, far from my open eye. I parry instinctively. Up, down, up again. Right. Low to the ground. Slide through the snow. Watch the blade! Catch the strike!

Clang.

Up again. Spin. Meet another blow. Clang. My hands are slick, my arms trembling. Clang. Keelan’s eyes blaze with determination. Clang.

I brace for Voenriel to betray me, to lurch, scream, and buck free of my grasp. Clang . My vision wavers, the world blurring. Clang. I force every ounce of strength into my swings, but Keelan’s blade moves like a blur, wild and whistling everywhere at once.

Each strike slows me further, exhaustion gripping tighter, its claws sinking deep. Keelan presses harder, his strikes furious, his thin windsword darting like an enraged wasp.

I have no choice. The trick we used as kids is my only chance. If Keelan still fights how he used to, and so far, he does, I know exactly how to win.

My body moves on instinct.

I duck just in time despite the pounding in my temples, blurred vision, and ragged, rasping breaths. Keelan’s blade whistles past, slicing the air above my head. I roll, rise, and turn to face him. His sword comes again, low this time. Very low. Perfect.

He’s predictable.

I leap, his blade slicing beneath me. As I descend, I press my feet downward, fast, sharp, and precise, aiming for the hilt of his sword and the fingers gripping it.

Crash.

Keelan lets out a sharp cry, his sword clattering to the ground as he jerks his hand away. He stumbles back, his boots sinking into the loose, powdery snow.

Triumph surges through me as I bend and scoop up Res. With both her and Voenriel aimed at Keelan, I swing them in playful arcs as my wrists move with practiced ease. I smile.

“I think we have a winner, don’t we?” I tease, though my arms are trembling and my heart pounds in my chest. Without that trick, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. Not today. Not in this fog.

For a moment, there’s only silence.

All I hear is the sound of my ragged breaths until the others begin to clap. Slowly at first, then more steadily. And it’s not just them. Applause rises from the elves at the edge of the forest. The ones hidden in the mist. The ones who shouldn’t be able to see us at all.

Keelan’s gaze locks on me, unreadable and unsettling. His eyes are narrowed, the green darker than ever, carrying a sharpness that feels almost hostile. The playful energy from before has vanished entirely.

He takes slow, deliberate steps toward me, extending his hand to retrieve his sword. His eyes remain fixed on mine, heavy with something I can’t place, while his mouth forms a thin, rigid line as sharp and taut as a blade of grass.

Either he’s a sore loser, though I know he isn’t, or he thinks I cheated. Perhaps he resents being defeated by a half-blind elf. Or maybe…

A chill spreads through me.

Or maybe he knows it’s me.

I give the sword one final spin, turning the hilt toward him. As I extend my arm, our eyes meet. His cold fingers brush against mine briefly, and then they’re gone.

Before I can ask what his problem is, Talendir pats me hard on the back. The blow sends me stumbling forward, but I recover quickly, straightening myself and turning to face him.

Voenriel is slick in my hand, dripping and soaking. I wipe her against my breeches before sliding her back into the scabbard. The low, satisfying rasp of steel against leather cuts through the quiet.

Talendir’s lips remain stiff and dry, impossible not to notice.

Thin skin flakes cling to them, poised to peel away or be swept off.

Behind him, the other participants form a loose semicircle, their figures half-lost in the fog, merging with the snowy backdrop.

They shove, laugh, and shout at one another, their impatience for the next trial palpable.

The sharp tang of sweat hangs in the air.

“You performed brilliantly, Saethiel,” Talendir says, nodding with quiet respect. “If you bring the same level of skill to the obstacle course, you’ll undoubtedly become a key asset to the defense.”

He smiles. A proud smile. One I’ve never seen him give to Iszaelda.

Is he proud of me?

A rush of heat fills my chest, and I instinctively straighten my posture. I can’t stop myself from smiling back, even though the tug at the corners of my lips feels unfamiliar and awkward.

Praise. Real praise.

Have I ever been praised before?

No one ever seems to value anything I do.

“Ririon, Ananther, and Nidealtar,” Talendir announces, his sharp voice ringing out. His head is held high, stretched toward the sky, and his long neck resembles that of a vulture. “Please step aside. Regrettably, you don’t meet the high standards required to join the defense. My condolences.”

His lips press together so firmly they all but disappear into the sagging folds of his skin.

“What? Are you serious? This’s my tenth trial! When will it be my turn? I won my match!”

“Please, Talendir, I’m begging you… why should?—”

“Justify this decision!”

Their voices rise in unison, a mix of anger and pleading. Their gestures are frantic as they shove forward, and frustration radiates from all three of them.

“And so,” Talendir says calmly, ignoring the chaos he’s caused, “now we take the respite of two tales. Gather your strength, for soon, you’ll face the renowned obstacle course.”

Before I can react, Keelan grabs my upper arm, his grip firm and unrelenting, and pulls me away from the others without a word.

“Tuesae! What are you doing?”

He doesn’t respond. His focus is fixed ahead as he strides toward the forest’s edge, dragging me into the mist and shadows of the trees. Snow-laden snowberry bushes, delicate primroses, and thorn brambles blur past us. There’s no path; we force our way through the dense undergrowth.

Branches rake against our faces, snagging and tearing at our sleeves. They claw and scrape. Cold and unbending. The dry rustle of the brambles fills the air as Aeralon’s fine clothes shred with every step.

“Tuesae!” I shout again, my arm throbbing in his grip. “Let me go!”

I twist and struggle to free myself, but the fog has sapped my strength.

My breaths come heavy, so ragged I feel on the verge of collapse, my head pounding like hammering blades against my skull.

My vision wavers, shaky and distorted, as if I’d drunk too much spirits or tasted the forbidden mushrooms, the ones Stara and Ceywen can’t get enough of.

Keelan finally stops when we’re far out of sight, in a secluded spot surrounded by clusters of winter aresberries, each as large as our hands.

Birch twigs, pine needles, and the crackling remnants of dried aspen leaves litter the forest floor. The air is thick with the earthy aroma of cold, untouched wilderness. The rhythmic drip of melting icicles fills the stillness. Drip, drip, drip —one drop for every heartbeat.

The dense, snow-draped forest surrounds us, quiet and heavy, its silence pressing in like a shroud.

Through the maze of bare branches and the drooping, snowy arms of fir trees, I glimpse the glade. A lone corner of it peeks through the lattice of winter, and that’s where my gaze settles.

“Seriously, it’s you!” Keelan’s eyes are poison green, blazing with fury. His fingers dig into my cloak, gripping it so tightly it’s hard to catch my breath.

“What do you want, Kelandil?” I snap, tearing myself free and stumbling straight into a bush. The long thorns jab into my back, scraping against my hood.

Keelan doesn’t stop. He pushes through the brambles, relentless. “You need to stop this.”

“What—”

“What in Jasdeya’s name are you doing?”

“Why did you drag me out here?”

“Stop pretending, Iszaelda.”

“Iszaelda? Who’s that?”

His hands clamp onto my shoulders, and he shakes me so hard the thorns dig deeper into my back, sharp and stinging. Then, in one swift, brutal motion, he pries open my glued eyelid.

“ Ow !” I cry out as the pain shoots through me. His rough fingers tear off several eyelashes, and I stagger back, retreating farther into the unforgiving thorns.

This isn’t him. Keelan isn’t like this. He’s always been steady, controlled, and kind.

But now? He’s furious.

“Are you just here to ruin this for me?” he bursts out. “Is that why you’re here?”

“No! I?—”

“I’ve wanted this my entire life!” he shouts, his voice raw. “I’ve always wanted to join, and you know that, Iszaelda. You know it!”

I shove him, anger flaring. “So have I! And you know that!”

“You!” He jabs his finger against my chest. “You’re a woman. You can’t be here. Why are you even doing this?”

“Because—”

“Did you really think no one would find out?”

My eyes narrow. “I had to try! This isn’t about you. If I get chosen, it doesn’t mean you won’t. Does it? Relax.”

I shove him hard, pushing him out of the thorn bush with both hands against his chest. Then I follow, squeezing out beside him, thorns snagging at my cloak.

We end up back where we started, where the corner of the glade is faintly visible through the mist.

“Don’t you get it?” Keelan hisses, brushing against some fir branches, sending them bouncing wildly like frantic hands. The air fills with snow dust, falling over us in a dry, shimmering rain.

“Stop shouting at me! You have no right!”

Keelan exhales sharply, his jaw clenched so tight it looks ready to crack. “You beat me, you know.”

“Múera vaniel a. I know.” I tilt my head, a sly smile tugging at my lips. “And you’re fiery bitter about it, aren’t you?”

“You made me look like an idiot!” He slams his hand into the thorn bush, the impact scattering a few brambles. “You used that trick, the one we used when we were kids. No one else would’ve seen it coming. And now, thanks to that, they’ll never pick me.”

“It wasn’t?—”

“It’s because of you!” he roars, his fists clenching so tightly his knuckles go pale. He looks ready to lash out, his anger barely contained. “I thought we were kindred. I thought we were promised to each other. I thought we were?—”

I push him, throwing him off balance. The effort leaves me winded. So weak. So fragile. “Maybe you should focus on improving your swordsmanship instead of blaming me.”

He laughs, struck silent.

“Then maybe you would’ve won despite everything,” I continue, pressing forward. “Everyone has their tricks, Keelan. You need to remember that. Never assume your opponent will be predictable. Not ever!”

“I want to get better,” he fires back, his voice rising in anger. “But I can only do that if I’m accepted. And thanks to you?—”

“You!” I jab a finger into his chest. “ Múr el! Not me. Take some fiery responsibility for once. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

“Go home, Iszaelda,” he snaps, his tone cold and cutting.

I roll my eyes, grabbing a handful of pine needles and clutching them tightly. “Don’t count on it. I’m going to win this?—”

“No.” His jaw tightens further. “I’m going to win this. This is my dream, not yours. Can’t you let me have it? Can’t you just?—”

“We can both be chosen, Keelan. It’s?—”

“You can’t!” His voice is sharp as his fist slams into an aspen tree, the impact echoing through the cold air. “Don’t you get it? You can’t be chosen.”

“Excuse me?” I step back, my boots crunching against the dry leaves hidden beneath the snow.

“Don’t you get it? You’re a woman! You don’t belong here!” His voice escalates into a roar. His eyes are wide and wild, and his brow is furrowed like cracked, sun-dried earth.

He’s always calm, always steady. Seeing him like this is both fascinating and deeply unsettling. I’m unsure how to respond. Does he even realize what he’s saying? Doesn’t he see that he’s acting like an uvani’eth? Doesn’t he understand that I’ll never speak to him again after this?

“And you’re a?—”

I freeze mid-sentence, the words dying on my lips. A prickling sensation crawls over my skin. I’m being watched. Slowly, I turn toward the glade.

Talendir is there. Watching.

And so are all the other participants. Their eyes are fixed on us, mouths agape, brows arched high, a mix of shock and disbelief is etched across their faces.

I force down a swallow.

A bitter tang spreads across my tongue—the taste of flesh bitten too hard. My teeth press in, deep enough to leave marks, and the metallic sting of blood slides down my throat.

How much did they hear?