Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
“What did I say?” their instructor shouts as he charges onto the mat. “You broke his damned neck!”
“How was I supposed to know his neck was that weak?” Jack argues.
You’re dead, Sorrengail, and I’m going to be the one to kill you. His promise from yesterday slithers through my memory.
“Eyes forward,” Emetterio orders, but his tone is kinder than it has been as we all look away from the dead first-year. “You don’t have to get used to it,” he tells us. “But you do have to function through it. You and you.” He points to Rhiannon and another first-year in our squad, a man with a stocky build, blue-black hair, and angular features. Shit, I can’t remember his name. Trevor? Thomas, maybe? There are too many new people to remember who is who at this point.
I glance at Dain, but he’s watching the pair as they take the mat.
Rhiannon makes quick work of the first-year, stunning me every time she dodges a punch and lands one of her own. She’s fast, and her hits are powerful, the kind of lethal combination that will set her apart, just like Mira.
“Do you yield?” she asks the first-year guy when she takes him to his back, her hand stopped mid-hit just above his throat.
Tanner? I’m pretty sure it’s something that starts with a T.
“No!” he shouts, hooking his legs around Rhiannon’s and slamming her to her back. But she rolls and quickly gains her feet before putting him in the same position again, this time with her boot to his neck.
“I don’t know, Tynan, you might want to yield,” Dain says with a grin. “She’s handing you your ass.”
Ah, that’s right. Tynan.
“Fuck off, Aetos!” Tynan snaps, but Rhiannon presses her boot into his throat, garbling the last word. He turns a mottled shade of red.
Yeah, Tynan has more ego than common sense.
“He yields,” Emetterio calls out, and Rhiannon steps back, offering her hand.
Tynan takes it.
“You—” Emetterio points to the pink-haired second-year with the rebellion relic. “And you.” His finger swings to me.
She’s at least a head taller than me, and if the rest of her body is as toned as her arms, then I’m pretty much fucked.
I can’t let her get her hands on me.
My heart threatens to beat out of my chest, but I nod and step onto the mat. “You’ve got this,” Rhiannon says, tapping my shoulder as she passes me.
“Sorrengail.” The pink-haired girl looks me over like I’m something she’s scraped off the side of her boot, narrowing her pale green eyes. “You really should dye your hair if you don’t want everyone to know who your mother is. You’re the only silver-haired freak in the quadrant.”
“Never said I cared if everyone knows who my mother is.” I circle the second-year on the mat. “I am proud of her service to protect our kingdom—from enemies both without and within.”
As her jaw tightens at the dig, a bubble of hope rises in my chest. Marked ones, as I’d heard some people this morning refer to those carrying rebellion relics on their arms, blame my mother for the execution of their parents. Fine. Hate me. Mom often says the minute you let emotion enter a fight, you’ve already lost. I’ve never prayed harder that my ice-in-her-veins mother was right.
“You bitch,” she seethes. “Your mother murdered my family.”
She lunges forward and swings wildly, and I quickly sidestep, spinning away with my hands up. We do that for a few more rounds, and I land a few jabs, start to think that my plan might just work.
She growls low in her throat as she misses me again, and her foot flies at my head. I easily duck, but then she drops to the ground and kicks out with her other foot, which lands square in my chest, sending me backward. I hit the mat with a thud, and she’s already above me, so damn fast.
“You can’t use your powers in here, Imogen!” Dain shouts.
Imogen is trying her best to kill me.
Her eyes are above mine, and I feel the quick slide of something hard against my ribs as she smiles at me. But her smile fades as we both look down, and I can’t help but notice a dagger being re-sheathed.
The armor just saved my life. Thank you, Mira.
Confusion mars Imogen’s face for just a second, long enough for me to send my fist into her cheek and roll out from under her.
My hand screams with pain even though I’m sure I formed the fist right, but I block it out as we both gain our feet.
“What kind of armor is that?” she asks, staring at my ribs as we circle each other.
“Mine.” I duck and dodge as she comes at me again, but her movements are a blur.
“Imogen!” Emetterio shouts. “Do it again, and I’ll—”