Fugitive of Death

11

 I stared at the flaps of Xander's tent for some time as my body decided which emotion would win: anger or embarrassment. It wasn't like me not to barrel head first and give the bastard a piece of my mind. I took a step forward but doubt dragged me back, followed by the heated shame of apologizing for overstepping whatever unspoken boundary had been laid.

He was a bastard, a prick, a jackass. I wanted to hurl every scalding insult I had ever learned back in his face simply because of his baffling volatility. But that would mean knocking myself back down to the dirt beneath his boots, which wasn't a fall I was about to take. Even if he was an asshole.

With my tail between my legs, I meandered back to my tent.

As I lay down on my bedroll, sleep refused to take me. I stared up at the canvas ceiling above, cursing my naivete. Had I not been so stupid as to actually think the captain considered me as more than just a weak link this would have never happened in the first place. I was too trusting and it was my single greatest weakness since setting foot in this kingdom.

During my first week in a Lysidorian border village, I was robbed blind by a group of street urchin children, snatching the bag of fine jewels I smuggled from the Palace of Byssia from the folds of my overcoat. I hadn't even noticed until my monthly housing payment was due the next day. I was forced to hand over my last Byssian possessions, a set of golden bangles that had been my tenth birthday gift—bangles that still fit at twenty.

You're just as naive as you were two years ago, I silently scolded myself. Forget about the prince. Just focus on training as hard as you can.

After hours of tossing and turning, I fell into a sleep so deep I missed the weekly debrief. And despite my hunger, I was glad not to have to face Xander.

That afternoon, I somehow found myself on the sparring mats with Iris, though sparring was inaccurate. It was really a repeated cycle of Iris tossing me flat on my back and pinning me down in various painful positions. I lost track of how many times the air was knocked from my lungs and I saw stars.

"This is embarrassing, Border Girl," Iris said, looming above and silhouetted by an overcast sky. Even with cloud coverage, her tan skin glistened with sweat.

I struggled to my feet, planting my legs apart and reading a defensive stance. "Again."

Her upper lip curled. "Your enthusiasm is impressive but even I won't resort to torturing you."

"It's not torture," I said, retying the tattered band that held my hair back, "it's practice. I need to get better."

What I needed was a distraction—and to get better. Because if the Captain wouldn't take me seriously as a thinker, no one would. I needed to hone my body and give them a reason to respect me especially if I was going to survive the Trial. Or the Culling.

"The only thing you're getting is a bruised ass," she said, refastening the leather vambraces around her arms.

"I am not!" I snapped. "Just a few more rounds."

I surveyed the rest of the sparring mats, noticing the beefy men wrestling like it were a leisurely stretch, barely breaking a sweat. On the far end of the mats, Markos had Phrixos pinned, the latter being the only man in the camp willing to spar with him. I couldn't help the way my gaze snagged on Markos's toned abs. Divines, I was no better than a girl.

My eyes roamed until they spotted a figure dressed in gray and blue and my stomach turned to lead. His pale hazel eyes ignored me, instead focusing on Yiani, who was seconds away from snapping another cadet's neck nearby.