Page 49 of Fallacies

“Don’t be.” Devon stands from his chair and extends a hand out to me. I politely decline it, deciding I need the ground’s support for a little bit longer, and something about my denial of his assistance amuses him. The threat of a smile twitches his lips. “You did what you were supposed to do.”

I force in another deep breath and glance across the training ring. Callan’s already freed himself from his ropes, wincing at Easton’s injuries as he approaches.

“You should go see Gemma,” Callan advises him.

Easton shakes his head at the advice, but Devon takes him by the shoulders, leading him towards the exit. “I got it.” He tells Callan.

I watch as they step over the fence to the training ring, hearing Easton mutter under his breath, “I better be a fucking flag next time.”

I let out an exhausted laugh, and when the next breath fills my chest, a giant shadow blocks out my sun.

It takes tremendous effort to look up at Callan.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, bent at the waist, palms pressed to the tops of his thighs. Silver eyes sweep across my body, lingering on the places coated in dried blood.

“Probably.”

His stare cuts to mine. He’s too serious for his own good. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.” I hold up my hand, and he takes it, hauling me to my feet. Once I’m standing, I drag in a few more deep breaths, hands propped on my hips.

When I look back at Callan, the intensity in his face has softened. “I haven’t seen Easton get his ass beat since we were kids.”

I scoff, lifting my arms over my head to stretch out the sharp pain in my lungs. “Callan, he beat my ass for four hours straight.”

That makes him laugh. “But you held your own the whole time.”

Mercifully, he hands me what’s left of my water, watching as I down it in one gulp.

“The only thing you need to work on is⁠—”

“Flags don’t talk.” I step around him, rubbing the dried blood from my wounds on my ruined shorts. “No critiquing until I’ve been fed lunch and dinner.”

11

Lucina

Iwake to the sound of familiar voices in the living room and waste no time sliding from the warm sheets, frowning when I find them empty.

Pulling a thin cardigan around my shoulders, I step out into the hall, a smile spreading over my face when I confirm who the voices belong to.

“There she is.” Pax grins from the kitchen, covered in dirt from head to toe. I tug my sweater the rest of the way down my arms and hurry to hug him—dirt and all. “Happy initiation day, little Reenan.”

My stomach flips.

It’s today.

Turning from Pax, I notice Nix in the living room with Easton and Devon, and Hunter is leaning against the counter—just as filthy as the other two who just got back from Streatham. Thank the gods they made it back at all. And in one piece.

Callan turns from the counter with two cups of coffee hand. It’s rare to see him dressed out of his uniform, wearing a pair of old jeans and a black hoodie. His hair is a little out of sorts from sleep, as if he’d heard their voices and sprung right up out of bed without so much as running a hand through the dark brown strands.

His eyes are sharp, though—always awake and alert. But they soften as they meet mine.

Callan wordlessly hands a mug to me, and I mutter a thank you as I slide into an empty barstool, wincing at my stiff joints as I pull my legs up in the seat with me.

“So, how did it go?” I ask no one in particular, blowing the steam off my coffee.

Callan settles against the counter beside me, watching me while I watch Pax and Hunter.