A Wicked Game [The Crown Saga II] (Under Editing)

Veiled

"Stance, Miss Aldwyn!"

I stopped mid-transition from one step of this cursed dance to the next.

Sweat trickled down my temples. My muscles screamed in pain, and my supporting leg trembled so badly it was a miracle that it hadn't yet shattered under my weight.

I didn't dare breathe as Art circled me, his narrowed eyes methodically assessing every tiny detail of my awkward posture.

Art only used my formal title when he was profoundly displeased with my performance. I bit my lip to draw attention away from my cramping muscles, fighting with everything I had not to lose control over my limbs.

"Your toe is not supposed to touch your knee," Art said, lightly hitting the back of my bent knee with his obnoxious staff. "There should always be a space the size of two fingers between your knee and toe. Your back should arch more, too. Have you not been following the schedule I gave you?"

Art waved his hand lazily in the air, dismissing me.

I violently expelled the breath I'd been holding. My limbs slackened, and I dropped to the floor, relishing the chill from the tiles biting into my flushed skin.

After four relentless hours of continuously repeating that miserable dance, I needed a break—a long break.

"What are you doing?" Art asked sharply.

"Relaxing," I muttered, barely able to control my tongue. I closed my eyes, welcoming the soothing darkness.

A sudden blow to my stomach forcibly ripped the fresh air from my lungs. I coughed to catch my breath and rolled to my side, pressing my hands against my spasming diaphragm.

"Did I give you permission to relax?" Art asked, indifferent to the fact that he had just slammed the tip of his staff into my very vulnerable stomach. "Get up and let us take the dance from the top."

"Again?" I asked hopelessly once I caught my breath. "Come on, Art. I haven't had a break in four hours. Miss Evelyn will pulverize me if I show up with a limp tonight—not to mention the countless bruises that I doubt a dress appropriate for the Crown Show will be able to cover."

"Nonsense," Art said, dismissing my plea with a lazy wave of his hand. "The healers will fix you in no time. We cannot afford to waste a moment of your training. The second trial will be upon us sooner than we might think."

I sighed, pressing my brow against the floor. His mood was even worse than usual. I didn't know why, and I knew better than to ask.

"Get up," Art said again, pointing toward the middle of the floor. "We start from the top."

I groaned and pushed myself to my sore feet. Whoever had interrupted his morning with bad news better have had a good reason.

My toes dragged across the floor as I strode toward my damnation. I crossed my right leg behind the left and twisted my back to the left. I stretched my left arm to the side—palm facing the sky—and bent my right arm in front of my chest.

"Chin up. Front leg bent," Art remarked, hitting my thigh with his dreadful staff.

I wanted to curse that monstrosity all the way back to the seed from which its founding tree had sprouted.

My muscles protested the strain as I adjusted my stance. I didn't want to inspire another lecture, so I bit back my complaints.

"Good," Art said, nodding approvingly. "You may begin."

I sucked in a breath, inhaling as much strength and courage as I could muster, and began moving from one step to the next like a leaf swaying in the wind.