A Court of Wings and Fate

2. Inciting Fights

Estelle grunted as she swung Aesira and her dagger, Znaniya, through the air. The sun had long since set and moonlight hung thick across the valley. It reflected off dozens of fragile snowdrops, which gave the valley a star filled effect. Estelle sheathed her sword and dagger at last and crouched beside a rippling pool.

She sighed, cupping water in her hands and splashing it across her face. I'm ready. I know I am, she thought. Why can't they see it too?

Her shadows said nothing, but brushed across her cheek, offering minimal comfort. Estelle's pointed ears perked up as she heard wing beats in the distance. She lifted her gaze and saw blue siphons glowing in the night sky. She stood as her father landed.

"Lysander told us about your conversation with Devlon and Jorah," Azriel said, crossing his arms.

"They don't think I'm ready," Estelle spat. "That's not true. I know I am. I've been preparing for this my entire life! Why do they insist on holding me back? I've heard that they plan on letting Lys and my cousins enter the Rite before me! Why? I'm just as capable as them. I've been training just as long as Nyx, and longer than Corbin and Lys."

Azriel shook his head, a small smile crossing his lips. "They aren't letting any of you compete in the Rite for a while yet and the Boys aren't going to get to join before you. Don't worry."

Estelle crossed her arms and looked away. Her father touched a scarred hand to her shoulder gently. "It's all right to be frustrated, Es. I know you want to prove yourself to everyone, and someday, you will, but not yet. You're lucky that Devlon is waiting to let you participate until he thinks you're ready. I didn't have that privilege."

"What do you mean?" Estelle arched an eyebrow.

He inclined his head and she sat down. Azriel sat next to her, his shadows leaping onto her shoulders to mingle with her own. "When Rhys, Cassian, and I participated in the Rite, we both were and weren't ready, depending on the standards you judge us by. We almost weren't allowed to enter the Rite at all because of our statuses, but Devlon finally agreed to let us. We were dumped at the base of Ramiel, separated from one another and with our wings bound, no weapons, and no magic."

Estelle remained silent, even though she'd heard this story before. She was certain that her father and uncles told it differently every time, but there was always some level of truth in the story. Perhaps there was something in this version that would help her convince Devlon to let her join the Rite.

She curled her mouth sideways. How strange it was to think that her mentor had overseen the training of her father and uncles as well. Devlon was old, despite his roughly handsome face. Her shadows snickered at the thought.

"By some miracle, we managed to find each other and scale Ramiel," Azriel continued. "We won the Rite, but barely. I shared your mentality when we went into it. I thought we were ready. I thought we knew what we would be facing, but I was wrong. You are a skilled warrior, Estelle, but if Devlon says you aren't ready, then listen to him. He's trained hundreds of generations of warriors. He knows what he's talking about."

"He's a prick," Estelle muttered.

"He is," Azriel agreed with a chuckle. "But he's a smart prick. The Rite is dangerous and not to be taken lightly. I'm not underestimating your abilities by any means. I know what you're capable of. But I also know that you have a habit of getting yourself into unnecessarily tough situations. You're good, but you can improve."

"You told me that there will always be things for me to improve on."

"There will."

"So I'll never be ready then," she huffed. Estelle drew her knees up and rested her chin atop them.