Daughter of the Sword

13 || Trainee

THE NEXT MORNING, I awaken in shivers, my body trembling beneath the sheet in the still dawn air. I had been too sad, too angry, to bother lighting a fire last night. I wanted to feel the cold, let it bite into my skin and punish me, distract me from Luke's face, Luke's words, every truth that I realized in one bitter, heartbreaking moment.

Of course they would not care about my life. They were willing to throw away my powers in an execution; why not do the same, but put them to use first?

I roll onto my side, rubbing my hands on my arms. I didn't even bother changing out of my training gear last night, and it pinches at the joints, having dug into me all night. At least they brought me dinner last night; Luke delivered it himself, which the General would have fumed about. He would never apologize--he's not in my corner, and never was. But in some form, some small way, it's recognition of something. But I don't want to waste time even considering it, because I'm already dead to him in every way that matters.

They've left my breakfast by the door, and I eat it methodically, barely tasting it as I force it down my throat with water, slimy and lumpy. If this ever becomes my last meal, I might consider it a fate worse than the death itself.

Beckett would have ensured I get a better meal. My heart pangs as I think of him, giving after so effort to not think about him, to not give into my baser instincts and miss a man I cannot have. He might not have believed in me at first, but he came around, enough that I knew he had my back. Where is he now? At the front? A new chill descends over me, and I finish my breakfast quickly, trying to put it out of my mind. It is his job. His dream. It brings him glory, honour, dignity. I can fret over him, but I cannot wish him different.

Still, I wish he were here. He would have clamoured to ask me if I was okay after the attack, would have been enraged at the dismissal of my brother—no matter what he thought deep down. I swallow hard. Is my brother right?

If Luke doesn't train me, they'll likely send me in anyway. I need him. No matter what he thinks of me, how easily he gave up on me.

When he comes to get me, I have an apology ready.

~

Luke reinstates my combat training. While he is often away on business, or otherwise engaged in meetings beyond my comprehension, another soldier drills me in sword combat. My skills hand-to-hand are significantly developed, he says, owing completely to my adept trainer at the castle. "What a miracle he has worked on you, to be able to install his gifts upon you," he had told me when we first sparred. Now, swatting at a loose strand of hair in front of my face, sweat dripping down my temples, I square my body to his, a blade in my hand.

"Don't let the tip drop to the ground. It must always be upright, else it can be knocked aside with ease."

I nod and My new trainer—Officer Hart—is cold and detached, with a brittle demeanour, not helped by the sweeping bags under his eyes and scars that spot his face like freckles. While stiff, though, he has been diligent in executing his orders, and over the last few weeks, surviving only by my own fires and the dreadful porridge in the morning and night, he has taught me well. I let myself fall into that frown, throwing myself into his teachings to keep me from thinking about Luke, or worse, about Beckett. And in the slivers of time between training and sleeping when my mind comes up for air, I am greeted by the choked gurgle of that man, that soldier, who I killed with nothing but my magic. One step at a time.

He runs me through a disarming drill again. When he can spare the time, Luke gives me the occasional lesson in powers, mainly focusing on small control. Aiming my flame at candles and twigs, being able to hold and extinguish multiple at once. Too much too quickly, he warned, and I could exhaust myself; the exhaustion of one's powers is dangerous beyond measure. They could break free of me and consume me, lash out, hurt any number of people. I think back to the mornings in the manor, wind curling around me, my sheets catching fire. It could have been much, much worse.