the seven virtues [tom riddle]

chapter seventeen

THE ANATOMY OF ALPHARD BLACK - THE BRIDGING MAN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Lev bit down on the reddened apple, squeezing it in his hand as obscurations emerged over the edges of his fingertips. His hair flopped over his forehead, as dark as the void he had been born out of, and his eyes flicked to obsidian as he scowled at the tart taste of the fruit.

The shadowmancer moved his gaze over to the courtyard, and he leaned back into the bark of the tree behind him as he watched Maxwell fumble with the bow and arrow, hands struggling to piece the two together.

Thunder rumbled in the heavens as the breeze picked up, having the archivist's hair flutter around and obscure his vision, and he groaned before letting everything fall to the ground, "This is pointless."

The older Myung sibling pulled at his white tunic, ruffled sleeves slightly blotched with greenery as he lifted from the ground, arranging his cuffs. He launched the apple in the air, then caught it with his other hand before strolling to one of the targets he had placed for Nott across the estate. Lev put the apple on a pedestal, then marched over to the boy.

"Give them to me," his order was followed promptly, and Lev picked up the weaponry, holding it so that the boy could see, "First, set the arrow, then the one important thing you must remember is elbow alignment—imagine your horizon to be a horologe, one elbow should be placed precisely at 9 o'clock, the other at 3 o'clock."

He plucked the string, and the arrow hit the half-eaten apple with accuracy, sending it sailing to the ground. Lev's leer was daunting, domineering, and he hoisted an eyebrow at the other boy.

"Your turn."

"This is all pointless," puffed Maxwell, "I will forget your instructions anyway; all you are doing is teasing me at this point."

"That is the wonder of combat training—you need muscle memory, not just any type of cognition. And see, research shows that if you train for at least two to four weeks, you will develop neurological adaptations. Now, less talking and more doing," revealed Lev before taking a step back and observing the boy.

Maxwell pushed his sandy-hair backward, rolling his shoulders to ease the strain in his flesh, and then set the arrow just as the shadowmancer had demonstrated. He elevated the bow, trying to aim for the target, yet his hands were weaving, and when he let go of the arrow, it sprinted to the terrain right in front.

The archivist, who was not used to not succeeding in anything with his first-try, slammed the bow against the ground, letting out a deep-throated unpleasant rumble. Lev's laugh only burned him further, although it had not been mockingly, but only a reaction to his tantrum.

"Pointless," restated Nott, eyes scurrying the estate to look for an escape.

Another thunder drummed the Slovenian Alps, and Maxwell glimpsed around the estate in awe—the Vila was near one of the peaks, which meant that everywhere surrounding it were sceneries worthy of poetical acclamations, with nature ravishingly blooming as summer approached its final day. The mountains encircling them were gleaming with viridescent hues as sunlight swept down on their branches, and crystal azure extended far beyond sight.