Page 54 of A Whisper of Cinders

Two pairs of feet appear in front of me, a breeze carrying the scent of burnt wood and oranges. Where have I scented this before? I slowly rise on somewhat unstable legs, meeting Aramis' friendly face and vivid eyes.

“Maily, this is Con. He’ll be your teacher until master Sturmsong returns.” My teacher? My gaze shifts to him, taking in his broad chest, firm arms and burning eyes. Oh, what a blessing it is. “I’d love to train you but I really hate to admit it - he is better than me.”

“You bet I am.”

My galloping heart falters. That voice…

“So, little feather, are you ready for your first lesson? It will be a private one, just for you. How privileged you are.”

Little feather.

The arrogant bastard who insulted me seconds after my arrival. The intoxicating scent belongs to him. Con must be short for Conláed, meaning he carried me to my room that first day when I was a weak, trembling mess.

Freaking fantastic.

“You know,” I say, forcing myself to meet his intense gaze. “It’s rude to comment on someone’s weight.”

Deep amber irises trap mine. “It is also very rude to be late, yet here we are.”

I bite my tongue. I don’t like being late either, but if I didn’t know I was expected at a certain hour, that isn’t on me. But I remain silent.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he muses. “Since you missed warm-ups, why don’t you start on those. Run some laps around the mat.”

“How many?”

“You don’t get to ask questions, feather. I do. I’ll tell you when to stop.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s got to be kidding.

Aramis moves closer, drawing my attention away from the arrogant prick in front of me. The look he gives me is full of sympathy. “Sorry, Mai. The longer you wait, the more laps he’ll add.” He leans in, the scent of pine getting stronger. “You got this,” he says with a soft voice. “I’d love to join you, but I have to go back to the Sanctum. Promise I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He starts walking backwards, but halts. “Please, try not to end up there, okay?”

I nod. If I don’t vocally word a promise, it doesn’t really count, now does it? I can’t make promises like that, not if I don’t know what will come at me.

Aramis whispers something to the already grinning Conláed. He nods too, raising his brows as he takes me in.

“Do you need a cheerleading squad to get started, or what?”

For a second or two I debate biting back, which is very unlike me. But the rational part inside of my brain thinks it might be wise not to rile up the one who will teach me the art of combat.

I do think I have to reconsider my opinion on everyone being kind around here. He definitely is not. Before he can give me another remark, I put my shoes back on and start running.

My breath starts wheezing after my second round, even though my pace is terribly slow, which confirms again how out of shape I am. My legs hurt, my lungs burn, sweat drips down my spine and the delicious scrambled eggs I ate earlier, are currently having a little rebellion in my stomach. If this is what moving your body feels like, I want none of it.

Yet, I push through, ignoring every instinct in my body that begs me to stop. Without looking, I feel when Conláed is watching me, his eyes leaving a mark on my skin I cannot erase.

When the feeling ebbs away, I search for him between the fighting pairs, seeing how he corrects stances and gives instructions or demonstrations. But he doesn’t tell me to stop, so I keep running, grinding my teeth as I do so.

After what feels like my twentieth round, he suddenly runs beside me. Although fast walking might be a better name for it. I’m already burning hot, but with him running next to me - his heat radiating in waves from him - I feel like I’m going to be a puddle on the wooden ground underneath my feet.

“So,” he drawls. “Warmed up yet?”

I can barely breathe, let alone answer his stupid question. “Nah…still…cold…” I don’t even know why my mouth forms those words, I’m sure I will regret them later. Fuck.

He chuckles. Nice to see he still has enough lung capacity to laugh. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see how far you can push that tiny body of yours, but I don’t want to carry you to the Sanctum.” He halts, but I keep going. “Stop. That’s an order.”

But here’s the thing; I don’t do well with orders. I’ve been ordered around for five long years, I will stop on my own accord. Even though every muscle in my body begs me to give in. I will push through a little longer, just to prove that I can.

He runs next to me once more, thankfully not physically making me stop. And eventually, I slow down, my legs begging me to stop, and I lean heavily on my knees.