Ruthless 🗡️/ Fourth Wing

Chapter~22

The morning had begun like any other—too early, too cold, and far too exhausting. Breakfast duty started at 5:25 a.m., the cold stone floors underfoot reminding me of the rigid structure of the academy. The smell of porridge and bread filled the air as I moved through the mess hall, placing plates of food in front of students who looked half dead from the relentless schedule. The first of many chores for the day, breakfast was served promptly at 6:00 a.m., and we had to ensure everything was in order before the bells rang.

By 7:00 a.m., it was time for Formation—the so-called "Death Roll"—a gathering where we were herded into the courtyard like livestock. Some would joke about it, but the reality was that those few minutes were filled with the weight of impending announcements, orders, and sometimes, warnings for those who had stepped out of line. I always stood at the back, trying not to draw attention to myself.

The day's first class was always a blur. Unnamed, nameless, in the second room on the left of the academic wing—no one could quite say what exactly we were supposed to learn, and it often felt like a punishment in and of itself. The instructors were harsh, often drilling us with lessons that felt both irrelevant and vital. A strange contradiction. Their eyes never softened, and their voices always carried a bite to them.

By the time we reached mid-morning, I was drained, but something still gnawed at me—a need to break free from the suffocating cycle of rules and routines. That's when I saw him. Xaden, leaning against the balcony terrace with his usual smirk, watching me from above, as though he'd been waiting for me to reach this breaking point.

The rest of the class was nothing but a blur—lectures on combat theory and magical suppression were just noise compared to the pull of that one, unspoken promise. The only escape, the only release from the stifling confines of the academic wing, was a sparring match.

The sun was beginning to dip low in the sky, casting an amber hue across the courtyard. A warm breeze tousled my hair as I walked with purpose through the throngs of students, each one either lost in their own world or preparing for their next round of punishment. I didn't care. I pushed through them, ignoring the whispers that followed me.

My eyes met Xaden's across the yard. There was an understanding between us—something that didn't need words. Without breaking his gaze, he pushed off the railing and began walking toward me, his movements fluid, calculated. A part of me already felt a rush of relief, as if the tension in my shoulders eased with each step.

We didn't speak as we made our way to the sparring gym.

The door to the gym creaked as I threw it open, the sound echoing off the stone walls. The air inside was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and exertion. A few of the other students were already there, sizing us up. But it didn't matter. I could barely register their presence as my heart began to race.

I could feel the heat building in my body, the burn of muscles aching for movement. I couldn't think of anything except the sparring mat, the space where I could finally release the restlessness clawing at my insides.

With a quick glance, I caught Xaden's eye again. Without a word, he stepped onto the mat, his posture shifting, an unspoken challenge in his stance. The moment I had been waiting for. The others around us fell into a silence, the anticipation heavy in the air.

I took my place opposite him, feeling the weight of the room on my shoulders.

"Ready?" His voice was quiet but sharp, a warning and a question all in one. There was something about his presence—something steady—that helped center me, even in the chaos of this moment.

I nodded, my breath steadying, every part of me ready to explode into action. Without another word, we moved.

Xaden's first attack came swift—faster than I anticipated. He launched a punch toward my head, but I ducked just in time, feeling the air whoosh past my ear. I countered, kicking at his side, but he blocked it effortlessly, stepping back and circling me with that characteristic smirk on his lips.

Minutes passed in a blur of fists, feet, and blocks. The sound of our strikes echoed through the gym, rhythmic and brutal. Each movement was a calculated step, a chance to outsmart, to outmaneuver. His strength, his experience, it showed in every move he made, but so did mine. I wasn't going to let him have this easy.

I pushed forward with renewed determination, adrenaline flooding my veins. A punch aimed at his jaw. A swift kick aimed at his midsection. Each time, he blocked, sidestepped, or dodged with an ease that frustrated me. But it was exhilarating, the rush of the fight taking over.

We were both sweating, panting with the exertion. My muscles screamed for relief, but I wasn't done. With a final burst of energy, I launched myself forward, aiming a direct punch at his face. He sidestepped, but I didn't stop. I spun, kicking at his ribs.

This time, I felt the connection—his body staggered backward.

I had him. Or so I thought.

Before I could react, he surged forward with a speed that caught me off guard. One second, I was standing tall, breathless and victorious in my mind. The next, I found myself on the floor, pinned beneath him. His hands were gentle, guiding my descent to ensure I wasn't hurt.

My heart pounded in my chest, the exhaustion weighing heavily on me as I stared up at him, my vision blurred from the effort. His body hovered above mine, and for a brief moment, I could feel the heat of his skin, the pressure of his weight. He was close—too close—but I didn't pull away.

"You feel better, sweetheart?" His voice was low, teasing, but there was a tenderness there, an understanding.

My mouth was dry, the words stuck in my throat. I could only nod, my big eyes looking up at him as I tried to catch my breath. I wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come. I was too exhausted, too... vulnerable.

"I'm glad I could help," he murmured, slowly lifting himself off me.

The moment he stood up, I couldn't help but notice how his shirt clung to his body—muscles flexing as he reached for it, pulling it back on. For a fleeting second, I couldn't look away, but as soon as I realized what I was doing, I quickly slammed my eyes shut, embarrassed and overwhelmed by the exhaustion that had finally taken over.

The cold mat beneath me seemed to swallow me whole as I let my body sink into it, closing my eyes, letting myself drown in the release of tension.

It was over. The fight. The day. Everything.

For now, at least.