Fugitive of Death

7

 I was not ready for the morning run.

In fact, I was convinced that three hours of cross-country jogging would kill me instead of anyone else.

Sweat dripped down my back in rivers, soaking every inch of my clothing. My lungs were on fire. Even with cloud coverage, the humidity was unbearable, making it feel as if I were running through soup instead of air. Every so often I would trip or stumble, causing me to overexert myself and sprint to catch up with the group.

And somehow, I wasn't the only victim.

Of the two dozen cadets in our batch, nearly half stopped to wretch on a nearby tree at some point during our run. No one was spared from heat exhaustion. I was only grateful that the sun hadn't made an appearance yet.

I noticed there was no sign of Ensar, the cadet Yiani had gut like a fish.

Our pack was led by Eutriza, who plowed on as easily as a deer bound through the woods, barely breaking a sweat. Her long dark hair was tied back into a ponytail, bronze skin shimmering. She made the most laborious task look almost attractive.

Almost.

She slowed down as we approached the river, its thrashing rapids frothing. "We'll rest here for a moment. Feel free to drink or douse, whichever you choose. But be careful of the current. The Sympharion isn't as forgiving as it appears."

Some of us had already tried our hand with the river—against our will—and learned of its ferocity. The last thing I wanted to do was take any more chances with the river, but I'd be a liar if I pretended that the cool spray wasn't beckoning. Not daring to get too close, I cupped a few handfuls of water and sipped before dumping the rest on my face.

Nearby, several of the male cadets had removed their leather vests as they trampled into the river and it took an immense amount of restraint to not stare. I really did not need to catch any of their eyes and have my ass kicked over a gaggle of toned abs. But the concept of the male body was entirely foreign to me, a forbidden fruit with absolutely no chance of sampling.

I could think about men when my life wasn't in danger all the time—so never.

"How are you holding up?" a voice said from behind me.

I turned to find Markos, sweat glistening on his toned chest. Heat creeping into my cheeks, I wrinkled my nose. "I feel like I was taken apart and then put back together again with rusty nails."

"Good," he said with a slight smile. "You're muscles will thank me later."

"Beg your pardon?"

"I'm talking about your strength, Bibi," he replied. "Get your head out of the gutter."

"You seem to be enjoying this," I said, ignoring the flushing in my cheeks.

He shrugged. "I've been a runner my whole life. My body was made for it."

I was less than impressed. "Lest we all be so fortunate to have legs half our body length."

"It could be worse," he said. "You're faring better than Iris."

I scanned my eyes over the other cadets for a few moments before I spied Iris with her hand braced against an immense tree trunk, bent over, and retching into the undergrowth.

I winced.

"Not all of us are good at everything," Markos said, following my line of sight. "She's all muscle; not conducive for long-distance running."

"What about those of us who are good at nothing?" I asked.

He cocked his head to the side and said, "No one's bad at everything," before sprinting off to the front of the pack just as Eutriza rounded us up like sheep once more.