A Court of Rage and Wishes

Chapter 12

A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long! I kind of hit a writer's block and had to take a short break from writing this. But, here it is! Between this chapter and the next, I'll be posting some of the Elriel oneshots I worked on during my break. Don't forget to comment and vote!

"Psst...Cici," a voice hissed, accompanied with a nudge to the shoulder. When Ariciya only groaned and buried her face into her pillow, Azriel nudged her again. "Cici, wake up!"

The female sighed and lifted her head, a curtain of pitch black hair covering her eyes. "What?" she grumbled.

A moment later, Azriel's fingers gently ran through her hair, pushing the tangled locks away from her face. His brows were furrowed in a way that she knew only meant trouble. Sitting back, he said, "They've declared a state of emergency. An announcement has been made that something was stolen from the palace on the night of the ball. Their exact words were that 'an important document has gone missing.'"

Shit. While she had been successful in acquiring the notebook and smuggling it back to their hotel room, its absence had not gone unnoticed. Which was weird, yet not surprising.

"What the hell do they mean 'an important document has gone missing?' Their whole cauldron-damned study was a mess!" Ariciya whined, her eyes still half shut. Despite her barely lucid state, her voice rose to a high pitch that made Azriel bite back a smile. There she was.

"It looks like we'll be laying low for another couple days," he said, patting her shoulder. "You can go back to sleep. I just wanted to let you know what was going on."

Ariciya muttered something about thanking Rhys and buried her face back into the pillows, her wings catching on the blankets. Growling, she flared out her wings, the fabric snapping with her movements before settling back on top of her.

"Good job," a familiar voice praised. Ariciya crossed her arms as the wind ripped at her leathers, at her hair. The voice continued, "Now you've got at least a whole camp scared of you."

Her hands curled into fists, still sticky with a mixture of blood and dirt. A part of her shuddered at the tackiness between her fingers. She followed the male toward his tent, which strained against the buffeting wind. When the wind bellowed once again, her wings tightened themself against her back. "You mean you're not going to punish me? Have me on kitchen duty before dawn?"

"I considered it," Cassian said, turning to her. He took in her blood-stained skin, the torn leathers, the glint in her dark eyes. The look of a warrior. A warrior who could change the Illyrian army for the better, if she wanted. She would—he'd realized that long ago. "But I figured it would send the wrong message. Besides, Devlon had it coming."

Despite the weight that sat in her chest, Ariciya let out a chuckle. "He really did, didn't he?"

"Indeed," the commander replied, opening the flap of the tent. He beckoned for her to enter. "I'm surprised you haven't punched his lights out before."

"Like you said," she began, walking in. "It would send the wrong message. I didn't want to bring a bad reputation to the female trainees. If I did, there would be even more resistance to our training."

The male strode over to the dresser and placed his weapons across it one by one, metal clanging against each other.

"Well, you've completed the Bloodrite so early in your life; I have no doubt that some trainees will follow your lead," he said, holding out a dampened washrag. "It's not every day that someone your age survives."

The Bloodrite didn't have an age requirement; it was just that most Illyrians didn't attempt their Bloodrite until they were at least a century old. It was a test; a test that challenged even the best trainees. Whispers of divine heritage drifted through the camps whenever anyone survived with seemingly little effort. Some claimed to be blessed by the gods of war, just as the Commander was. Others didn't claim blessings, only themselves and the lives of their peers.