Page 10

Gray.

Of all the colors in the world, Martysh had to choose gray for our outfits.

I grumble at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at the coarse tunic that falls to my mid-thigh.

It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. The leggings are snug and feel a little rough against my skin after what seems like endless washes, but they allow for free movement. Even the tunic is not restrictive.

Over the tunic, I wear a well-worn, dark brown, sleeveless leather vest I found in the only closet in my small quarter. It fits close to my torso, providing a degree of protection without hindering mobility. Long leather bands wrapped around my waist and forearms complete the outfit.

It is not glamorous, the attire. No fancy embroidery or flowing sleeves. But it is sturdy, and that’s what matters. Honestly, after a lifetime of those high-necked, long-sleeved kirtles at Fire Temple, I welcome the practicality.

But gray ? That, I absolutely hate. I have already endured nine years of gray, not having any other clothes besides the Fire Temple Academy’s official garb. Other kids wore vibrant colors outside our lessons, but not me. I was stuck with Academy’s gray.

It wasn’t that I envied the golden or blue dresses the other few girls in the Academy wore (well, maybe I did a little). I just hated the way wearing the same gray garb all the time marked me as different, poor, an orphan, as if everyone needed another reminder.

No, gray is definitely not my favorite color.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Why am I letting this color, these memories, bother me? That was a life I left behind. This gray is different. This is Martysh’s gray! It is the attire of a warrior, not a lonely orphan. This is the color that I chose! This is my gray.

I take a long, hard look at my reflection, really seeing myself for the first time in my new warrior attire. My gaze sweeps over my features, taking them in with a critical eye.

I can’t fool myself; I am not exactly what anyone would call a breathtaking beauty. Not ugly, no, but definitely not turning heads.

My eyes are probably my best feature, even if they are a painful reminder of my absent Gajari mother. Big and black, almond-shaped, with thick, long lashes—all Gajari. I don’t mind my eyebrows and hair, either. My raven hair is thick and shiny, with a natural wave to it.

What I like most about my eyes and hair, though, is that they are dark. Not pale, like my father and his trueborn children. I don’t want to look like them, like him . Don’t want to be associated with him in any way, even though I am certain he has long forgotten about the child he abandoned.

But other than that, I’m quite average. Average height, average nose, average mouth. Maybe a little on the thin side, with no curves to speak of. Not that I ever cared much. I’ve always been too busy worrying about what others think of my personality to care about their opinions about my looks.

I take another deep breath and step out of my small quarters.

It’s the first morning after the trials started.

Restless dreams kept me wide awake before the first rooster crowed.

I walk from the watchtower, where our quarters are located, to the kitchen, quickly snatch an apple, and make for the training grounds.

Dawn has barely peeked over the horizon, and the training ground is blessedly empty, which is precisely why I am here—to avoid public humiliation for my lackluster sword skills.

Grabbing a sword from the weapon rack—which is overflowing with enough pointy, sharp, and generally dangerous-looking objects to outfit a small army—I head to the closest training dummy.

Unsurprisingly, I swing the sword with all the grace of a drunken rabbit. The air whooshes, more from effort than anything resembling a proper cut, and the blade clangs harmlessly off the dummy, sending a shower of sawdust raining down on my untidy hair.

“Even a snail with a limp could survive that attack,” a voice drawls from behind me.

Startled, I whirl around to find Darian watching me. A smirk plays on his lips as he observes my valiant yet ultimately pathetic display of swordsmanship.

Even though he looks as if he just crawled out of bed—his hair slightly tousled and his clothes a bit rumpled—he, infuriatingly , still looks stunningly charming, and my pulse quickens at the sight of him.

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I exclaim as I try to plant the sword in the ground with a grand gesture, only to almost topple over myself. Wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead, I marvel at the sting of exertion and the tinge of embarrassment.

“Frankly, it was more of a compliment, considering you clearly haven’t been acquainted with a sword since…

well, ever. Your form isn’t entirely terrible,” Darian comments casually, inspecting me with the critical eye of a sculptor assessing a chunky clay pot.

“It’s your aim that needs a bit of… refinement. ”

Now, I’m really not in the mood for smug commentary, especially from someone who looks like he’s been cradling a sword since he could walk. “Thanks for that incredibly insightful observation,” I mutter, wrestling with the sword that seems determined to remain permanently embedded in the earth.

Darian, however, remains unfazed, possessing the unshakeable confidence of a man who wouldn’t bat an eyelash if a Daeva decided to take a nap on his side.

“You’re most welcome,” he chirps, plucking a sword from the rack that looks more like an oversized needle than a weapon of war.

“Most people think swordplay is all about brute force, but it’s an art.

Movement, footwork, redirection, the occasional well-timed jab—that’s what separates the warriors from the enthusiastically stabbing crowd. ”

He twirls the slender sword with elegance and offers it to me. “Shall we dance?”

Hesitantly, I reach out and take the weapon. The sword feels like a feather compared to the cumbersome club I’d been wrestling with moments ago.

“Let’s see what you can do with a blade that doesn’t require the strength of an ox,” he deadpans.

I don’t move as I eye him suspiciously.

“What’s the matter? Afraid of a little friendly dance with the competition?” A corner of his mouth twitches upward, a common and fascinating expression. “Or are you worried your sword skills are about as sharp as a butter knife?”

I draw myself up. “I was rather hoping for some solitary practice. Besides, I prefer my sparring partners to be less… insulting.”

“And that is precisely why you’re no good.

If you want to poke holes in inanimate objects, might I suggest embroidery?

Swordplay is a dance, not a solo performance.

You need a partner. Someone to point out your flaws, your questionable footwork, and your uncanny ability to miss a target the size of a barn door. ”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve been practicing for years!” I huff.

“You don’t call stabbing dead dummies practicing, do you?” he counters, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“And what’s it to you, anyway?” I grumble, feeling my cheeks flush.

“Well, I, too, am here to train. And as I so eloquently mentioned, swordplay isn’t a solo sport. Consider this a life-saving lesson should these trials force you to use a sword.”

I consider his offer. I have indeed spent countless hours practicing with lifeless dummies, but facing a real opponent is a different beast altogether. This could be the chance to test my abilities against a living, breathing adversary. I can’t afford to pass up such a valuable opportunity.

I grip the thin sword with newfound determination, ready to show that I’m not just a bookworm with a gift for navigating through mists. Darian, meanwhile, twirls his own sword like it is a feather, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes his stance opposite me.

My eyes dart to that dimple, on full display, and my pulse quickens. He is so effortlessly handsome, I almost want to wipe that charming grin off his face. Does he have to be so infuriatingly attractive while I’m just trying to practice in peace? It’s incredibly distracting.

Focus, Arien!

He gestures to me to attack, and that, I do.

I lunge forward as my sword whistles through the air. Darian, with an expression that strikes a balance between amusement and boredom, doesn’t even bother raising his blade. Instead, he sidesteps casually, causing my sword to whistle past his ear.

“Trying to carve yourself a new hot spring? Because that’s about the only thing you’ll hit with that swing.”

I whirl around, cheeks burning. “Oh, I’ll hit something all right.” I lunge, aiming for his ribs, but with a slight movement, he brings his sword in line to clash with mine.

He raises an eyebrow. “I must suggest embroidery again. They say it builds excellent hand-eye coordination.”

With a growl, I lunge again, and he deflects it with another infuriatingly effortless smirk.

“Think of it like threading a needle, not axing a tree,” he advises.

Frustrated, I snatch the sword back. “If I can’t overpower you, how am I supposed to disarm you?”

“There’s more to combat than brute strength. It’s about finesse, precision, and control.” He takes his position opposite me once more. “Let’s try again, but focus on your form and movements this time, not how forcefully you wield your sword.”

Taking his advice, I mirror his posture, carefully observing how he holds his sword and shifts his weight.

Instead of my previous wild swings, I attempt controlled jabs and parries.

Darian deflects or blocks each move effortlessly, but he refrains from striking back, patiently guiding me through the motions.

The sun seems to have a personal feud against me as sweat trickles down my back. Darian, however, moves with the grace and fluidity of a willow tree swaying in the spring breeze.