Page 29 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Sixteen

Tyla kept her sparring until three in the morning.

They worked on basic footwork, defensive ripostes, and the key to reading an opponent’s shoulders instead of their blade before any striking lessons were imparted.

Ingrid bled, sweated, and had the wind knocked out of her twice, but rest was only permitted when it became obvious her exhaustion was making it impossible for any cemented learning—her arms and legs too unresponsive to instill any muscle memory.

Just as fast as she’d been thrust into it, Ingrid’s training had ceased.

“That’s it?” she asked, hopelessly out of breath. “Come on, I can… I can keep going.”

Tyla crossed her arms, admiring her tutee’s spirit. “No need.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means there’s no need,” Tyla responded flatly. “You’ve hit your ceiling. It’s not going to get any better than this.” She glared at her, almost daring her to question her again.

Ingrid didn’t. She was too tired. The sword suddenly felt impossibly difficult to hold in her hand, and she thought about throwing it to the ground, but settled on asking one more question: “What was the point of this, then?”

“To give you a little confidence. If the rest of us are killed, now you’ll have a small sliver of hope for escape.” Along with the icy delivery, there was a calm, friendly assurance in the way Tyla spoke of death.

The distractions were dissolving around them. The deadly, nearly suicidal mission was around the corner, and these attempts at humor, Ingrid realized, were Tyla’s defense mechanism.

This was war. As unbelievable as it felt for Ingrid to think it, let alone say it out loud, she was at war. Thrust carelessly in the center of the battlefield at a pivotal moment, when soldiers had two choices. Be afraid. Or remove emotion entirely.

“You didn’t tell me much about Sylan,” she said with urgency. Other than the fact that he was powerful and feared by most, they hadn’t taken time to discuss him. “Why is he called the Bastard Prince?”

Tyla took a kneeling position to rest her legs, massaging her calf gently.

“He’s not Makkar’s true son. He’s an orphan, adopted and awarded the title.

I hate him and what he stands for, but he earned it.

He was born in a dark and unforgiving place I can’t imagine having to spend one night in, let alone grow up in.

The marshes of Vargosinn. The same place infested by those creatures that now inhabit the Heartwood Forest. And he survived it all alone. ”

She spoke of the Viator general with an odd reverence, and as his story came out, Ingrid could see why.

Without the help of any family or allies, a too-young Sylan survived countless horrors.

He fought his way through the long trek to Hydor and enlisted in Makkar’s army at the age of thirteen.

By fifteen, he was promoted to General. And by seventeen, he led all of Hydor’s military.

His rank only below King Makkar himself.

Ingrid shivered a bit. “So Makkar named him the heir to his throne? Or does he have children of his own?”

“He has many children. Both sons and daughters,” Tyla responded.

“Though none of them are favored as much as Sylan is. Without Sylan, Makkar never would’ve been able to seize the territories he has in the last five years.

So, yes, that psychopath will likely take over the crown, if ever Makkar falls.

” Tyla fidgeted with the forearm plate of her practice armor.

“He is ruthless. Unnaturally fast. Rumors say he is a wind-wielder, able to ride currents and disappear into thin air. Others say he’s inexplicably immune to magic.

But that doesn’t cover the most lethal thing about him.

He is, undoubtedly, the greatest swordsman alive.

And he’s only getting better. I told you he started leading at a young age, and that wasn’t that long ago. ”

Ingrid gripped her sword handle tightly. “How old is he?” She’d assumed they were all ancient, that an immortal race would certainly revere the eldest of them, or at the very least put them in higher positions.

“Younger than me and Rai,” Tyla said with a rocking of her head. “Took command a little over fifteen years ago. So he’s still improving. Always training. Honing. But he does bleed. If you find yourself face-to-face with him, don’t forget that.”

“Meaning I can beat him?” Ingrid asked with mock-cockiness.

Tyla only snorted. “Meaning you might be able to run away. If it’s only Sylan standing in the way, run. Then never look back.” She softened her voice to add, “Please. I’m sure it feels impossible right now to feel the full gravity of all this, but don’t let that make you careless.”

Ingrid nodded, tiny needles pricking her arms.

“Good,” Tyla said.

And with that, her session ended. The best lesson in all of this, Ingrid gathered, was that overthinking would only make it harder for her to survive. If she remained focused, tempering herself, she might have a chance.

It was easier said than done. Ingrid had been trying all her life to control the whirlwind of her tortured mind.

It was one thing to suffer what she’d suffered, yet it was another to blame yourself for all your pain.

In her darkest moments, she couldn’t help but think that her misfortune must have been in some way her fault.

That it was just her nature. That she’d been born that way.

Damaged, doomed, different—and she’d never be strong enough to break the curse.

But to survive this, she couldn’t doubt herself any longer.

“Get some rest,” Tyla said as she ascended the stairs. “And try not to think about all this until you have to.”

Yes, how much easier it was, said than done.

Ingrid shuffled out the door of the bunker and up the stairs, her new iron companion still in hand.

The mounted lamps flickered as she walked softly on her toes, unsure if the males in the cabin were tucked in their bedrooms asleep, or worse, wandering the halls and under the impression they were alone.

The last thing she wanted was to cross paths with them while sweaty and probably stinking, carrying a four-foot-long sword.

Once in her room, she placed her weapon hilt-down next to her bed, kicked her shoes in a corner, and threw herself on the mattress, not even bothering to get under the blankets.

Even with the pain and terror shooting through her, she thought more about the attitude Tyla carried at the end of their session.

That soldier mindset she quickly realized was necessary for what they’d face tomorrow.

Sooner rather than later, she would have to make her choice.

She would have to commit to this strange new world, accepting her slim chances of seeing the end intact, or allowing fear into her heart.

She pulled in a long, shaky breath, focusing.

And then she made her choice.

She chose fear.

Slithering in like some serpent from an antiquated fairy tale, it spread through her veins and nerve endings until she was shedding slow, complicated tears.

The release surprised her, but she wasted no energy trying to snap herself out of it.

It had been so long since she’d allowed this kind of catharsis, so long since she’d let her rage melt into a torrent of unrestrained sadness.

She wasn’t mourning her old life, exactly.

There was no home to go back to, no joy, no solace in that isolated existence.

But the future, the aspirations she’d held so close to her heart—finding a small spot in the world where she could carve out some peace—that was now impossible. Retreat was impossible. She was stuck.

That is why she wept. That is what she mourned. That is why she gave in. She was in danger of losing the little freedom she’d earned for herself, and she could do nothing about it. Not alone.

She wiped her tears, closed her fists.

And then came the denial. When suddenly it all felt like a charade, like an elaborate ruse to cut the final string tethering her to reality. If only she could fall asleep, drift off dreamlessly like she’d done the night before, then wake to a world where she wasn’t in constant straits.

But that world didn’t exist—it never had.

And then came the anger. It burned like some dormant demon surging through Earth’s core and bursting through the surface.

Damn the combat training, she thought, she didn’t need it.

The monsters wanted her inherent power, wanted to use it, wanted to take it from her, make it their own, because they wanted to eliminate what they didn’t possess themselves.

Because they feared it. Because they feared her.

If the worst came, and it all turned to a pitiful pile of gore before her, she wouldn’t run, she wouldn’t merely hold on to hope. She would go out in flame and turn to ash before she went on living like prey.

The thought soothed her. A mad grin stretched across her face. But then came the reality again.

Absurd—the whole thing was completely absurd.

She had two conflicting truths balancing on a scale, each threatening to tip over in an instant.

There was a light that shone bright, showing her the way, begging her to adapt.

Yet that other, long-trained and habitual voice in her mind was still unrelenting.

Leave. These people are mad. This is all too much. Too unthinkable.

She couldn’t do this.

Her head snapped up from her pillow, and every nerve and joint and muscle screamed at her to move, to go, to run.

Then never look back , Tyla had said.

Ingrid would never forget those words. Never had a warning rattled her so, while also carrying so much care, as if the battle-ready world-walker had peered into her soul and seen exactly what would seize her later that night. This exact fear. This indecisiveness. Her fleeting impulses.

Because if Tyla hadn’t said those exact words, in that exact manner, giving her student the bold and ugly truth of what they were up against, Ingrid might’ve run. Might’ve fully given up. Might’ve opened the window in her bedroom and run through acres of dark woods for as long as she could manage.

Which, as it turned out, wouldn’t have been long at all.

Minutes, maybe seconds—that’s how much time it would’ve taken. How long before what lurked out there, at that very moment, heard her frightened stomping and took away any choice she had left.

A new nightmare was at her door.

Heavy footsteps clacked in the hallway. Close behind them was the sound of slamming doors and echoed shouts.

The remote house, usually eerily quiet, now erupted with the chaos of a freeway collision.

Ingrid shot to her feet so quickly that the wooden frame of the bed slid backward, lunging for her sword.

She held it tightly at her side as the footsteps became louder, her jaw clenched so tight her ears began to ring.

All the soreness and exhaustion she’d accrued in the training session just half an hour before had dissipated.

She was again unfeeling, unthinking.

The door swung open and a shadow of a man peered his head inside.

“Basement,” the shadow whispered. “Now.”

Ingrid didn’t move, didn’t speak. Only when Dean moved out from the darkness enveloping the hall did she take a breath.

He was shirtless, without shoes or any other articles of clothing save for his underwear. The muscles in his right arm flexed as he held a large dagger with a viseer stone embedded in the base of the blade.

Ingrid was frozen at the terror in his voice, staring at the myriad scars he had scattered over his chest and torso.

He gestured silently to her sword, and she snatched it up before following him—sprinting as briskly as possible to the heavy door leading to the basement, then locking it behind them.

“What is—” she started to ask, but Dean stopped, turned, and placed his hand gently over her mouth.

He was so close she could feel his breath on her.

With peeled-back eyelids, he gazed upward as if listening intently for a fly buzzing its wings.

They were halfway down the stairs to the underground fortress, but as anxious as Ingrid was to get fully submerged below, she stopped too, idle as deer in the brush.

Listening for what had somehow broken the cabin’s barrier, smashing those last lines of defense that Tyla had been so confident in.

The smell of it—that was what hit Ingrid first. The dank odor of blood and sweat seeped into her nostrils abruptly. Metallic, earthy scents filled the air. Her stomach turned, and before she could cover her face, a trembling growl sounded off from behind the door.

Whomever had come, Ingrid realized, they’d brought hunting animals with them.

Dean whisked her away down the rest of the remaining steps and into one of the long aisles.

“What should I grab?” Ingrid asked.

“Any weapons you can carry.” Dean lifted the first and second metal roll-up doors and pointed to one of the sets of armor displayed. It was black and gold, with a breastplate for a female of her size. “Put this on.”

She obeyed, lifting the heavy iron gear over her head, then fastened the belt, leg guards and plated boots in a frenzy.

The weight of it left her feeling slow and bulky, but once Dean slid her sword into the sheath attached to her belt, she began to feel a little safer. Like she’d grown a second skin.

Growls turned to roaring barks and loud clanging against the door.

“Raidinn and Tyla are waiting for you in the portal room,” Dean said. “Go.”

Ingrid glanced up to see if anyone was coming down the stairs. “Are you coming?” she asked, turning back to him and realizing they were only inches apart.

“Yes.” He placed his hand in hers, assuring her with a stroke over her palm, “Right behind you.” He returned to the armory and began filling a large leather satchel full of stones, weapons, and several of those jars containing odd plant-life.

The scene struck Ingrid like a lightning bolt from above.

This was it. They weren’t just leaving the cabin. Dean’s impenetrable hideout had been discovered, promptly punctured, and was no longer safe. They were surrounded by thick woods in every direction. They had been scented and cornered. This was it.

They were leaving.

They were leaving Earth.