Training should have started fifteen minutes ago—and Gwyn was still not here. She wasn't coming. Not that Azriel expected to find her in the ring this after yesterday, but he hoped she'd show. The idea of her sitting alone in her dorm made the acid turn in his gut. He tilted his face to the morning sun, his eyes gritty with bags of sand beneath. There was no sleeping last night, not when his thoughts focused on the female huddled on the cobblestone.
Azriel's rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pain, the stale taste of liquor coating his mouth. He wished he'd taken that headache powder that Elain...
"Is Gwyn coming," Roslin asked as the group continued stretching and warming their muscles on the sand of the training circle.
Emerie caught Azriel's gaze from the ground.
He loosed a long sigh, rolling his neck. "We can't wait any longer. Let's begin. Pair up and work on punch combos. Emerie, you're with me," he instructed, sliding a pair of broken-in pads on his scarred hands.
Emerie stood and shook out her arms, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Fixing her stance in front of him, she checked the wrappings on her hands, flexing her fingers. Az lifted the pads, setting his feet into the sand. The Illyrian female's punches were no joke, almost equal to any male of their species. And Em was the prime example of why the bastards wanted to keep the females in line. In a few more sessions, she could hand their asses to any one of them, including that prick Devlon. Those archaic winged fuckers didn't know what hit him when the females—his and Cassian's trained females—had won the Blood Rite.
"That's good, Emerie. Make sure you tuck the left wing in a little...does that feel a little better? More stable? Good. All right. Begin."
One, two. Block. One, two. Block. One, two.
Emerie continued with the pattern, her ebony brows lowered in concentration. The grunts, the thudding of fists against leather, and the seagull caws overhead filled the rooftop. There was nothing quite like the fresh air, out in the daylight, honing your body into a weapon. A relaxing symphony for a warrior.
Relaxing? If only. The muscle in his left cheek ticked and his wings twitched.
'Ask her, Shadowsinger. How is she?'
How is she? The question weighed heavily on his mind. The same question he tried drowning out with whiskey, so he was too drunk to make it to the library last night. Azriel had to know the answer, even if it made him sick.
"What happened when Gwyn came home last night," he sought, his tone steady, though his body thrummed with apprehension.
Emerie glanced up as her fist pounded into the left pad. "Gwyn went downstairs without saying a word and didn't come back."
Azriel nodded, keeping his face impassive, and refocused on correcting thumb placement. No reason to break a digit because of laziness. He knew that too well. And that's why the knuckles were so damn crooked.
'Not the only reason…' Yeah, Azriel was not taking that trip down memory lane.
"Okay," he addressed the group. "Let's switch up the combo to a jab, crossover—"
The heavy door to the rooftop flew open with a bang, rebounding off the exterior wall. Birds scattered. Fists lowered. Silence, as if all of Velaris held its breath.
The silhouette made his heart slam against his ribs, and his shadows appear. Watching and waiting.
Gwyn stalked across the roof, straight into the fighting ring. Outfitted in her training leathers, ginger hair plaited into a tight braid, her hands settled on the curve of her hips as she took in the scene. The female before them was ready for battle. A warrior goddess. A true Valkyrie.
"Well? Who's my partner," she challenged, her voice as sharp as a honed weapon. Lethal in the right hands...and breathtaking.
'Beautiful,' his shadows purred, swirling by his ears.
The young priestess stared at him with darkened eyes, tapping a booted foot with one brow raised.
"Emerie, you go with Gwyn. Nice to see you this morning, Berdera." She didn't deign to acknowledge his presence. Walking right past him, Gwyn reached for boxing pads on the equipment rack, roughly tossing them to her partner. Emerie's brows shot up as she sent Azriel a questioning look.
'The little Priestess is in a mood,' his shadows whispered.
That she was. Azriel took up a spot on the edge of the ring, crossing his arms over his chest. His shadows weren't saying a word, but they were following her every move.
Emerie put on the pads and got into position while Gwyn wrapped her hands. Az noted the knuckles on her right fingers, the splits like small canyons running through her pale skin. Her wince gave her away. Dammit, she was wrapping them too tight.
'She's doing it on purpose. The Valkyrie wants to feel the pain.'
Gwyn smacked each fist into each palm, taking her position before Emerie, waiting for her partner's signal to begin.
"Ready," Emerie relayed with a nod.
Then it was pure chaos, a flurry of fists and kicks. These were no practice moves. No, Gwyn was using every bit of strength behind each attack. Jabs. Uppercuts. Crossovers. Back kicks. No rhythm or predictability and Emerie was struggling with the pad placement to protect herself.
Despite her frantic pace, Gwyn showed no sign of slowing down. The lithe female's nymph heritage made her the fastest in the class by far. Graceful and light on her feet. Sparing with Gwyn was a deadly dance. She could bob and weave, spin around, and take your legs out before you could blink. But the fierceness, the grueling speed, and brutal force behind the attacks today? Azriel didn't need his shadows to know why. He recognized the anger swirling behind her blank eyes.
"Gwyn, hold on a minute," Emerie panted, moving her hand to block a jab to the ribs.
Gwyn kept pushing. The sweat poured off her forehead in buckets from the exertion, matting stray strands of her copper to her temples. With a battle cry, Gwyn spun and kicked, her foot meeting Emerie's chest, who stumbled backward under the force.
"Gwyn, stop," Emerie squealed as she tried to right herself into position.
Shit.
Emerie would not be able to block the next kick, and it was heading straight for her head.
Azriel stepped in front of Gwyn, grabbing her foot and pushing back until she landed flat on her ass. Gwyn hissed and barred her teeth, slamming her fists into the sand. She stared at him from the ground with daggers in her eyes.
"Emerie, take a few minutes and grab some water. Then I want you to run through the punching drills with the other trainees. You can shadowbox and go through the motions with them," he directed the Illyrian female who nodded in reply. Azriel glared at a pissed-off Gwyn, crossing his arms over his chest. "You."
"What about me," she scoffed from the ground, mimicking his pose. "Is my training over today? Are you sending me back to the library, Spymaster?"
"No. You're with me. Get up."
"Aren't you going to help me up," she mocked sweetly, muttering something that sounded like a dick under her breath when he walked away. If Az wasn't fuming, he might have found that funny.
He didn't help her off the ground. After that nonsense with Emerie, Gwyn needed to know Azriel was pissed. Just because he understood didn't mean he had to accept that behavior. If her kick had connected…
He shook his head, rolling his shoulders. Unacceptable. He strode over to the side of the ring, putting pads on his hands.
Gwyn followed, opening and closing her hands.
"Get in your stance," he ordered.
She rolled her eyes but obeyed, setting up her clenched fists. Ready and waiting, her fists flexing. The little Valkyrie was an impatient little thing.
"Go."
Mother, her punches were fucking strong. Gwyn spun and kicked so hard it pushed him back. At that moment, Azriel understood what was powering her strength. It was in her eyes, the swirling anger a vibrant blue like the center of a flame. Each move was full of her fury. Fear. Sorrow. Frustration. Those emotions were the gathered kindling and last night's experience poured the oil and lit the match. Today's outburst was about controlling the burn.
Azriel let her go. He let her attack until the protective barrier wore through and his hands took the brunt of each brutal hit. Till her punches glanced off his palms. Until Gwyn's body sagged, and she could no longer raise her fists. She staggered backward, shaking her trembling hands out, panting each breath. Until he sensed the fire smoldered into embers.
It was only then when the haze cleared; she realized training had ended an hour ago.
Gwyn pushed back the unruly, sweaty strands stuck to the sides of her throat. Shaking her head, eyes wide, she gasped. "Oh my...your hands."
Hands? He inspected his hands, opening and closing them, turning them. His palms were red and swollen, but he'd had worse. Much worse. The sad irony was, with the scar tissue, he barely felt a twinge of pain.
"W-why didn't you—s-stop me," Gwyn croaked while she struggled to control her breath, bending over to put her hands on her knees.
He flung the destroyed remnants of the guards to the ground. "Because you needed to work things out."
She stared down unblinking at the discarded guards, realizing she'd punched right through them. Her cerulean eyes lifted to meet his. "So you let me use you as my living punching bag," she gulped, her voice cracking.
He shrugged, schooling a blank expression. "Better me than Emerie."
Her eyes darted to the floor, her head hanging low.
Az stepped forward until they were toe-to-toe. She lifted her trembling chin. Those big, pretty eyes lined with silver. "Anytime, Gwyn. Anytime you need to work shit out up here, I'm here." He left the for you unspoken. "But don't pull that during training, not on one of the other trainees."
She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. "Oh, gods," she croaked, the desperate sound like a knife to his heart. Her hand curled against her chest. "I could have hurt Emerie..."
He had every intention of walking around her and straight into the house. To be the teacher. To prove a point. That plan lasted two steps before stopping beside the shivering female.
Azriel swallowed the lump in his throat. "Gwyn...I..." I'm sorry. I'm sorry I didn't make it to Sangravah in time.
Shadows whirled down his arm. His hand lifted in its own accord, squeezing her shoulder. Azriel wanted to hold her. Comfort her. Tell Gwyn everything would get better. But how could he when he was the root of this pain? Instead, he withdrew his hand and hurried back to the House.