Total pages in book: 214
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 195876 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 979(@200wpm)___ 784(@250wpm)___ 653(@300wpm)
"Legacies," our instructor says. "Here to observe. Ignore them."
Easier said than done when I can feel Bastian's gaze following my every move like a physical touch. What does he want from me? What does he see when he looks at me—a curiosity? A responsibility? Something else entirely?
The other legacies stroll about the room, hands clasped behind their backs with military efficiency. They observe us with clear disinterest and disdain. For that much, I can’t say I blame them.
Other than Raith and a handful of standouts, we make a pretty pathetic picture as we resume stumbling through combat stances and practice drills.
The instructor of the fires approaches our group, expression grim. She's a severe looking woman with black hair in a braid so tight it looks like it must hurt. She has lean muscles that speak of combat prowess.
She murmurs something to our instructor, who nods and then cuts his eyes directly to me. My heart skips.
"Waters. You'll each complete one sparring match," he announces, voice carrying across our group. "The match ends when your opponent yields or can no longer get up. You," he says, beckoning me forward with one crooked finger. "You've been challenged by one of the fires. Go with Instructor Kyreen. She'll show you to your opponent."
"What?" Mireen gasps, her fingers briefly catching my sleeve.
"It's okay," I lie, forcing a smile even as panic screams through every nerve ending.
My stomach is in my throat as I follow the fire instructor toward the smaller group of fires. Raith towers over them, walking at the front with his terrifying gaze fixed on me as he stalks forward. I feel like a mouse being watched by a hawk—each step bringing me closer to inevitable claws.
"Am I allowed to refuse the challenge?" I ask, voice smaller than I intend as we cross the vast space between groups. I can sense eyes from all corners of the room tracking my movement, wondering what I could have possibly done to attract this kind of attention so quickly.
She looks down at me, her eyes a deep, simmering orange that reveals no sympathy. "No. Do you think you'll be able to politely decline when the Red Kingdom attacks an outpost you're defending? When they ambush your camp in the night?"
I swallow a sigh, steeling myself for what's coming. No escape, then. No mercy.
"Who challenged me? Her?" I ask, pointing at the beautiful fire girl with black hair who watches me with venomous contempt, her fists clenched at her sides so tightly I can see white knuckles even from this distance.
"Serena?" Kyreen asks, something like amusement flickering across her face. "No. Though she wanted to. Raith Hollow seems to have beat her to it."
Fuck me.
Against Serena, I might have had a slim chance of surviving with only moderate injuries. Against Raith, though? There's no chance in any hell. No gods powerful enough to save me from this. I might as well have been asked to fight a dragon barehanded.
The pounding of my heart forms a desperate rhythm of fear. Blood roars in my ears until it's almost deafening.
It's only me and the giant, scarred volunteer with yellow-orange eyes.
Each step toward the raised platform sends jolts of nervous energy up my spine, skin prickling with gooseflesh beneath the weight of so many watching eyes. Some students are already sparring on other platforms, the dull sounds of impact punctuated by grunts and occasional cries of pain. Most, though, have stopped what they’re doing to look our way.
Raith stands waiting at the edge of the mat, power radiating from him in almost visible waves. His expression remains carefully guarded, his gaze a wall I can’t possibly see past.
Everything else fades to background noise as I desperately try to form a plan—try to figure out how I'm supposed to fight this mountain of man, muscle, and deadly intent standing across from me. My mind whirls through options, each more unlikely than the last.
The legacies have drifted closer, their silver and gold uniforms gleaming. Bastian stands among them, his expression inscrutable. Both fire and water instructors watch us intently, arms crossed in mirrored poses of assessment.
Raith settles into a fighting stance with the fluid grace of someone who has done this thousands of times before. I mirror him as best I can, trying to recall everything I've learned in the brief crash course on fighting we've all been given.
I quickly conclude that I'm royally fucked.
"Why me?" I demand as we begin to circle each other around the ring, my voice lower than I'd intended, betraying my nerves.
I expect some sort of asshole comment in response—something cutting and dismissive that confirms my expendability in his eyes. Instead, his gaze slides briefly to Serena, who is already fighting two rings over. She's on top of a muscular boy with a fire mark, relentlessly pounding her fists into his face as blood sprays across the stone in crimson arcs.