Page 55 of The Song of Sunrise (The Prentice Teller #1)

Disadvantage

I t has been almost a week since my vision, and I haven’t been back to Anita’s since, despite Castor and Leaf begging me to join for beverages after particularly grueling classes.

If I’m not already meeting up with Atlys, Ramona will usually step in and cover for me with an excuse.

Yet more and more, I’m finding that it’s not a lie to claim my studies are taking my evenings.

If I’m going to graduate as a Watcher, I need my first stone.

So, midday cramming between finals it is.

I finish scribbling down the last few notes in my favorite leather journal for my History of Watchers final this evening when Ramona barges into our room.

“Done studying yet, Kem? We have our Battlefield final first, and I’m itching to get there early.”

I fold the paper to study later into the front pocket of my battle leathers and strap my deerskin pouch full of throwing stars across my waist. As we walk out, I grab the golden staff, still myraged to look like wood . “Ready.”

We head to the Lower Fields, taking the latest passageway Tegrat staff shared with us that leads from the cadets’ quarters down a spiral stone staircase to an unused classroom on level one.

Ramona leads us down the winding stairs, trailing her arm along the stone for balance. Daggers clank with each of her heavy steps. “I hope they match me with Cassiopeia today. She has the nerve to keep butting me in line for throwing practice.”

There is only one first year I would enjoy pricking with my throwing stars, and her name rhymes with Abra. “Whoever they pair me with is going down,” I say with a little more sneer than intended, flipping a star in my hand.

“That’s the spirit! Finally catching up to the dark side,” Ramona says with a crooked grin.

Cadets are spread throughout the Lower Fields practice areas when we arrive.

Selene cuts feverishly into a wooden mark with her short sword.

Artemis grunts as he pulls his bow string taut before firing.

Though small in stature, Artemis is turning out to be a master at distance shooting with an accuracy that would impress even a third-stone, second only to Leaf.

Sabra wraps her knuckles and glares at me as we walk past, not bothering to hide her sneer before punching a stuffed leather bag.

Suddenly, I wish we had come sooner. Ramona was right to rush us here. Everyone else seems to be preparing already. I find a discreet spot in the corner to start my stretches. Arms, shoulder swings, torso twists, neck rolls, then lunges and leg stretches.

I unsheathe my staff and bring it through a series of similar warm ups.

It now sits so comfortably in my hands that it feels like another extension of myself.

And in many ways, it is just that. Not trying to impress anyone in particular but myself, I spin the staff rapidly in my hands, swinging it across my shoulders, switching hands behind my back and around over my head.

I repeat this pattern over and over until my breath falls into a rhythm.

I quicken my pace, only focusing on my breath.

“Akemi!” Ramona whispers harshly, snapping me out of my drill. She points aggressively toward Commander Hogsmith.

“Now that I have everyone’s attention. Ten laps, GO!” Hogsmith yells. The class jumps into action, jogging around the perimeter of the room. Since the attack on Redrock, the Commander has taken on a new level of rigor in Battlefield. Most recently, the focus has been running.

About twenty minutes later, I’m breathing heavily from the quick pace we set around the room, my ankle stinging from rolling it a few laps ago.

The energy is tense, no cadets quite willing to be the last to return to the padded space in the middle where Pictor and Sabra had returned first. Ramona and I join in the middle next, then Selene and two others, with Cassiopeia trailing close behind.

Pictor charges past three cadets on the final stretch.

Leo, looking solemn, finishes his laps and joins in the middle, leaving Artemis as last. His thin limbs curve and buckle under the pressure before collapsing onto his knees in pain the moment he finishes his final lap.

My fingers itch to massage my throbbing ankle, but I resist, not wanting to look weak. Sabra watches me intently, like she can sense the pain underneath my mask of cool indifference.

“As I was saying,” Hogsmith continues, as if our running was an inconvenience to him, “our finals will be a duel. I will draw a name out of this bowl.” He gestures to a stone bowl I only just now noticed in the corner of the room.

Its surface is carved with ornate scrawling scenes depicting a pile of people desperately climbing out of a massive crater.

“If drawn, you will pick your opponent. A clear advantage.” The class murmurs in agreement.

“The chosen opponent will also have an advantage.”

I lean in closer.

“They will pick the weapon.”

My stomach curdles at the sound of Sabra laughing.

Only second smallest to Ramona, I’m at a major disadvantage.

Ramona, on the other hand, will turn her opponents to ribbons before she is bested.

If I am drawn, then I can pick my opponent, but they get to choose the weapon.

My mind is still spinning when Commander Hogsmith draws a name from the bowl.

“Leo!”

Leo walks forward, his strawberry blonde hair now shaved short.

His gait is powerful. Something snapped since losing his twin sister in the second task.

Dark circles shadow beneath his eyes, and his cheekbones are more pronounced.

Yet the most alarming change is his eyes, once quick to crinkle with laughter, now replaced by hard, depthless orbs that scan the room.

He steps into the fighting ring. “I choose Pictor as my opponent.”

Pictor rolls up his sleeves and enters the ring.

Pictor came into the Academy from a smaller farming village in southern Eastland.

Muscles bulk his body from hours of tending to the farm, hauling hay, and yielding crops.

At the beginning of this year, I would have assumed that Pictor would win any duel partner he was matched with…

but Leo has a coldness inside. This could be anyone’s fight.

“Weapon of choice?” Commander Hogsmith asks Pictor.

“Long sword.” Pictor smirks, knowing full well that his upper body strength will outlast Leo’s.

Hogsmith snaps his fingers, and a cart of various long swords appears just outside the dueling circle.

Pictor and Leo each take time to properly test the swing and balance of a few swords before settling on their weapons and returning to the ring.

Slowly, they begin circling like two magnets repelling one another.

Leo makes the first move so quickly that only the sound of crashing steel alerts me to the duel beginning.

The precision in their steps and weight thrown behind each swing is impressive.

When their match is done, both of their faces are bloodied, Leo the victor.

“Up next”—the Commander unrolls another small piece of parchment—“Cassiopeia!”

“Ramona,” she says with no hesitation as she steps into the circle, tying her bright blonde hair high on her head.

“Big mistake,” Ramona mumbles as she walks forward.

“Claim the weapon of choice,” Hogsmith interjects.

Ramona flings two of her daggers from her sheath by her rib cage up into the air, catches them, then proceeds to twirl them effortlessly. “Daggers.”

If Cassiopeia is nervous, she hides it well. She and Ramona begin circling each other until Ramona takes the first offensive strike, jabbing at an upward angle. Cassiopeia leans left, avoiding the blow.

Finals are difficult, but none are as brutal as Battlefield. This is the class that determines your rank in the Watch post graduation.

If you graduate at all.

To earn your first stone, you have to pass all finals. I’m confident that History and Intro are passes. Nature Studies was easier than I anticipated, though I still have a rash from misidentifying a plant.

I scratch the remainder of the rash on my arm underneath my leathers and wince as Ramona nearly loses an eye. Her near hit catapults her into a fury of limbs and blades. She dances around Cassiopeia in graceful, quick steps and pivots until her blade is pinned between her shoulder blades.

“Hold!” Hogsmith yells. He walks over to inspect the killing blow Ramona would have dealt Cassiopeia. In real battles, we cannot afford to be sloppy, to miss the mark. There is no time in battle, only life and death and the exchange in between.

“Ramona wins!” he bellows, and I let out a breath of relief. The class claps, and I give my best friend a quick hug. Cassiopeia leaves the ring quickly, but I don’t miss the anger in her light blue eyes.

The next four duels are over quickly until there are only two people left: me and Sabra.

Hogsmith reaches into the bowl and unwraps the scroll. “Akemi!”

Shit! Being drawn first isn’t an advantage anymore when there are only two of us left.

I walk into the circle and roll my shoulders back, masking my panic under a calm expression.

I send a quick mental thank you to Marrow for insisting I work on my stage presence.

Sabra steps in across from me, adjusting her wrist guards.

There is a distinctive feverish glee in her usually soulless eyes.

She thinks she can take me. That I’m no match for her.

She is much taller than me and incredibly strong. Her arm length would probably serve her well with daggers or a short sword. Maybe she’ll pick a heavy weapon like an axe that I might not be able to swing as readily.

Sabra spreads her hands wide and grins wickedly. “Hand-to-hand combat.”

I swallow down the bile creeping up the back of my throat and begin my self-assessment of body awareness. I turn inward, assessing my balance, my feet, the level of stress I feel. The throb in my ankle ceases to a tingle as I begin to compartmentalize the pain.

It could have been worse. She’s foolish for picking hand-to-hand. While I might seem like an easy fight…

I’m not.

Not anymore, at least.

She probably wants to find a way to put her hands on me herself and an excuse to punch me. It would have been wiser to pick a large, heavy weapon, but her ego got the best of her.

If Sabra wants to play dirty, fine. Let’s play. I roll my shoulders and lift my chin. The room around us stills. Pictor stops wiping the blood from his nose, Artemis stops massaging his leg, and Ramona watches anxiously.

I can practically feel pity from the class as we circle one another, likely already writing me off as the loser. What they don’t know is that I was not just chosen by the Lord of Terraguard, but trained by him also.

I sink into Coredivers’ stance that comes as naturally to me now as singing and extend my hands in blades instead of the Watcher’s closed fist style.

Sabra’s eyes widen the slightest bit, but I don’t waste any time and slide to the floor into my first position.

Unlike the Watch, which primarily trains in upper body strikes, the Coredivers use a larger variety, much of which is lower body strength.

In my lowered position on the floor, Sabra attempts to stomp from her higher vantage point.

Anticipating her move, I rock back onto my shoulders and press my hands into the cold stone floor before flipping back onto my feet, bending my knees once again in the Corediver stance.

Sabra jabs for my face, and I bend backward, then swing another kick to her ribs.

She grunts and sends a series of punches at me.

I dodge most, but two land hard on my side.

Fuck, I think she might have cracked a rib.

My anger quickly stifles the pain. I attack with a series of five strikes, a blade to the side, punch to the shoulder, and kick.

Sabra is furious but too slow to respond, so I continue my assault with a swinging low swipe to her feet.

She teeters off balance, then I strike a final blade to her back.

I make the mistake of taking a few breaths to recover, and she lands two more blows to my side.

It feels like we have been fighting for hours, though only a few minutes have passed. My lungs are stinging and I pivot left, wincing at the flare of pain in my ankle.

Sabra notices the weakness like a shark, circling and circling until the right moment to strike. She kicks my ankle and I scream, shuffling to the side on one foot.

“Commander!” Selene yells from the side. “She is openly striking an injury.”

Pretty much all of my body is an injury at this point.

“Is she striking a wound or exploiting a weakness? It is my call when the duel is over and if a strike is valid Cadet. Continue!”

My defense stances are beginning to weaken, and with every move, Sabra has a counter, even utilizing previous Cordiver elements into her approach. Sun burn me, she is a fast learner.

Nothing I do is surprising her anymore. Until one of us falters, I am stuck.

Think, think, think.

I groan internally at my idea, but know it’s my best shot.

Sabra starts to shuffle toward me, tilting her head so she can see through her good eye. The other is puffed nearly shut from one of my jabs. She fakes right, then kicks low. I block. Then she turns around, swinging her leg in an arching kick. Damn, she’s learning.

But I’m already there. My left foot connects with her face and my ankle crunches and buckles under the contact. She left her defense to my injured side open as I predicted, writing off that I wouldn’t push through the pain.

She must not know how stubborn I can be when I’m determined to win.

Sabra goes down hard, and my vision blots with stars. I manage to remain standing on my right side long enough for Hogsmith to call me the winner.

I keep my pain compartmentalized until the infirmary, but by then, my facade fades and the pain sweeps in.

Tears stream down my face. I’m relieved I passed this final with full marks, but my body hurts .

Nurse Panacea comes over at once, muttering and cursing the “archaic practices” the academy still uses and hands me a small vial of swirling silver liquid.

“To help you sleep… and for the pain,” she says.

I gulp it down and welcome the instantaneous damper on the pain, like a gentle numbing fog. Sleep comes fast, and when I wake the next morning, a large glass bowl of water sits on my bedside table with a singular glowing lily floating on top.