Page 50

The Countering Strike

“ O h, now you decide to show up?” Salahfar asks, his plate nearly empty.

“I just woke up.”

The hall buzzes and hums, filled with chattering star elves. Their loud voices sting my ears. Clattering cutlery. The scent of seared meat. Hair whipping through the air.

I feel sick.

We got back late last night. Afraid to fall asleep, I spent the night studying Netharu’el’s note until I drifted off with it clutched in my hands. Luckily, the dreams that followed left no trace.

I sit down.

“Zel!” Acranta nudges my arm. “What does Neth have to say about this?”

“Nothing. He’s not here.”

“Oh? Well, that’s interesting. Have you mentioned that?”

“I told you when?—”

“Ah, how convenient,” she interrupts. “Taking the chance for a little rest day, are we?”

Acranta doesn’t usually interrupt. She shouldn’t start now. It irritates me.

“It was a very involuntary rest day.”

“Mmm-mm.” Her brows lift.

“If you four hadn’t kept me up, I’d have been up on time.”

“If you say so.”

“Ugh, I’m so jealous of you.” Fax groans, his elbows sprawled on the table, his fork waving, and his hair sticking out in every direction. “Ibwa dragged me out of bed before dawn. I’m dead, you see.”

“Oh, we see it, alright,” Jelethia mutters, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, which catches on her lip rings. She pries it off, bit by bit.

“Don’t be,” I tell Fax. “I must train all day to make up for what I’ve missed.”

“Oh, come on. Netharu’el isn’t even here. Live a little, for Maevux’s sake.”

“I started two mooncrescents ago, but I’m expected to keep up with all of you. Trust me, I don’t have time to ‘live a little.’”

I take a bite. Then another.

The ape meat floods my mouth, tender, falling apart effortlessly, its sweet juices slipping between my teeth. It tastes like charred chicken with a hint of herbs.

“Excellent. Everyone’s here.” Salahfar leans forward, hands clasped behind his back. “We have a decision to make.”

“You’re doing that thing again.” Fax grins. “Looking all leader-like. It’s very attractive, you see.”

“Can someone hit him for me?” Salahfar asks dryly. “Unfortunately, I can’t reach.”

“Absolutely.” I shove Fax hard in the shoulder.

He gasps, clutching his chest with mock offense. “You hit me? What kind of elf are you? I thought we were kin!”

I wave him off.

“If we could refrain from fighting for a moment,” Acranta says with a glare, “I’d like to know what we’re deciding.”

Salahfar leans in further.

“Whether we tell anyone what happened.”

“Tell who?”

“Kathraanis.”

“Like Saxx, we are!” Fax exclaims. “Absolutely not!”

“Calm down,” Jelethia mutters.

“No, listen,” Fax presses on. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

“I’m not doing punishment duty just because they suddenly decided the forest is off-limits at night.” Fax huffs, shoving a bite of food into his mouth. “It was never forbidden before.”

I swallow and look up. “We have to tell them.”

“Why?” Fax gives me a sharp look. “What’s the point?”

I lower my voice. “I overheard Kathraanis and Vaast talking.”

Acranta’s head snaps toward me. “Oh? You were eavesdropping? When?—”

“They’re not planning to inform Merediath about the first dragon attack. Not unless something else happens.” I pause. “Kathraanis thinks… Akares is nearby.”

Acranta inhales sharply. “Mesmigli? Here?”

“That’s what she believes.”

Salahfar frowns. “How does that even make sense? Akares owns at least two, maybe five dragons. And let me tell you something…” He gestures pointedly. “They don’t just fly around Gorgoroth on their own. They’re domesticated. Owned. Kept under lock and key.”

“And how do you know that?” I ask. “Kathraanis wouldn’t say it without reason. Don’t you think?”

“In this case, she happens to be wrong. Merediath knows more about Mesmigli and his movements than anyone.”

“So wouldn’t it make sense for her to be informed?”

“Would’ve been informed. You can’t just switch tenses mid-sentence.”

I roll my eyes. “Try and stop me.”

“Just don’t drag me into it,” Fax blurts. “I wasn’t with you in the fo?—”

“Neither was I, see,” Jelethia cuts in.

“Oh, come on.” Acranta shoots Fax a sharp look. “If there are three of us, the punishment gets worse.” She crosses her arms. “I still think we should tell them. It’s important, right?”

Fax grins, fluttering his lashes as he props his chin on his palm. “Iszaelda?”

What now? “I’m listening.”

“What was Netharu’el’s reaction when you asked him to teach you Arzakean?”

I freeze. “How in all the fires do you know I asked him?”

Fax’s grin widens. “Just a wild, wild guess. And apparently, I was right.”

I can’t help but smirk. “He said it was only for star elves and that it was dangerous for sun elves. Then he refused to discuss it any further.”

“Just as I suspected, you see.” Fax twirls his fork between his fingers. “Many older star elves are rigid in their beliefs. They see it as unnatural when things happen that shouldn’t happen.”

What does that even mean for a star elf? What qualifies as ‘older’ for an immortal race?

“It’s not just the older ones,” Salahfar mutters. “Even I think it’s wrong if I’m being honest.”

Jelethia nods in agreement.

“Of course you do, fuddy-duddy.” Fax scoffs. “All the star elves have been brainwashed. Convinced that only we can and should wield Arzakean. That it’s dangerous for anyone else.”

“What does that have to do with the dragon?” I ask.

Fax’s expression shifts slightly, but he holds his smirk. “How did the other sun elves react when they discovered you had no abilities?”

I meet his gaze. “They put me in the Hollow. A kind of prison.”

“Bel’Akra!” Acranta exclaims, shoving her plate aside and placing a warm hand over mine. “Are they completely insane?”

“Do you want the same thing to happen here?” Fax asks. “To be punished? Forced to drop out? For Netharu’el to see you as abnormal, just like the sun elves did?”

“Of course not.”

He leans back with a smirk. “Exactly, see? That makes three of us who don’t want to tell Kathraanis. Three against five. And if you tell, you’ll have to explain how the dragon vanished without mentioning our dear sun elf here.”

Salahfar exhales sharply. “Great. That complicates things.” He turns to Acranta. “What’s your take?”

“On what?”

I groan, rubbing my temples. “For all the fires, Acranta! Stop forgetting everything!”

“Oh, sorry! It’s not my fault, I just?—”

Fax leans in. “The question was whether you wanted to sell out Zel or not. She doesn’t want to tell”—he lowers his voice—“you know what… to Kathraanis.”

“You know what?” Acranta looks around, meeting everyone’s eyes.

“Doesn’t matter,” I mutter. “Just say yes or no.”

“Sell out Zel or don’t sell out Zel,” Fax repeats, doing his best to spell it out for her.

Acranta scoffs. “Of course, I’m not selling out Zel.”

“Perfect. Settled then.” Salahfar rises to his feet. “We’re not telling Kathraanis.”

I clench my fists and let the storm inside me loose. It’s been a mooncrescent since Netharu’el left. A fiery mooncrescent.

I slam my fist into the training dummy, sending it swinging back half an elf’s length. Back and forth. Back and forth. I strike again. And again. And again. My knuckles burn, red, raw, throbbing.

“I have to leave soon. I’ll probably be gone for several days.”

Not a mooncrescent. Not. A. Blazing. Moon. Crescent.

“Zen bay el,” I snarl at the swaying figure. Darkness ignites, flaring in rhythm with the actual flames.

The night is dark blue, and the sky is heavy with thunderclouds.

The air hangs thick and stifling, silent as if the heavens are holding their breath, ready to break.

The only light comes from the flames, crackling, devouring, and licking at the training dummy’s face as it reaches hungrily for the grass.

I stand in Nimuala’s western grounds, where ten dummies are lined up against the back of the main building.

This isn’t right. The fire will leave a trace.

They’ll know.

“Umh le ge.”

Water crashes over the flames, drowning them in a sharp hiss.

I don’t stop. I keep striking.

The dummy, soaked, smoldering, and deserving of every hit, takes the brunt of my anger.

I pretend it’s Netharu’el. I imagine his smug, untouchable face beneath my fists.

A whole mooncrescent of training alone. Seeking guidance from friends instead of my master. Pushing harder and longer than ever before to keep up.

Kathraanis promised his return soon, but he’s been delayed for days. She doesn’t know why. That much is clear.

I have no choice but to be a Shadow Warrior. Not just any, but the best. So I need proper training. I need to be ready for Akares.

And I won’t be without Netharu’el.

Kathraanis had said, “You’re welcome to attend the training sessions of the other apprentices.”

I tried. One ereday, I joined Jelethia and Vaast as they practiced swordplay. And who was I meant to spar with? No one.

One aftenday, I stood with Acranta and Baalvon as they trained in knife-throwing. But only one target and one set of knives meant for Acranta’s. So I learned on my own. Observed. Listened. Trained. Alone.

Mainly aftendusk, watching, sensing, and listening. Running lap after lap across the field, with and without a blindfold.

I’ve sparred with Fax, fought with Jelethia, and shadowed Acranta.

They’ve helped me as much as possible, given the time available.

But most of all, I’ve learned more Arzakean.

Salahfar’s been my guide, offering me new words to practice each time we meet.

At last, I can wield magic, even if it’s in secret, even if it’s forbidden.

The dummy groans under my relentless kicks. Right. Left. Right. Left.

Jelethia excels at this. Just the other day, she showed me the proper technique. We’re not friends, not yet. But since that night in the forest, we understand each other better.

With sweat trickling down my skin and my heart hammering, I step back. Soon, I can rest. Soon. But not yet. I still need to practice my new sword movements.

Salahfar showed me four-step combinations Kes’raa had taught him, but we rushed through them.

He was in a hurry. For them to sink in, I need to focus. Drill them.

I want them to feel natural and effortless, like they’ve always been mine.

I unsheathe my sword, the blade clinking against the hard edges of my belt. I close my eyes. Picture Salahfar’s movements. Then I move.

The night presses in from all sides as I twist, pivot, and strike. The blade whispers through the air, cutting like a phantom’s breath. Before the imagined counterattack lands, I duck, roll, and spring up to attack from behind. The grass grates against my calves, cool and rustling.

One foot hooks her ankle and locks her in place. A heartbeat later, my blade pierces through her form.

I pause. Rest a hand on my knee, dragging in deep, steadying breaths.

Fresh air fills my lungs. The first sequence is locked in.

Next sequence. I position myself near the palms, feet grounded, weight light. I imagine my opponent rushing straight for me. Just before she reaches me, I sidestep, leap into the air, and hang there for a fleeting moment, then push off a nearby tree trunk.

As I descend, steel meets steel in a sharp clash. I twist, brace, lock my foot and blade against hers and land, pinning her beneath me.

But she isn’t just a phantom opponent.

I’ve landed on Netharu’el.