by Lucy Roy
“I’m scheduled to be here,” she told the one before her, a tall, ruddy male with a stony expression. “I’d like to pass, please.”
Recognizing them both, the guard nodded gruffly and motioned for them to enter.
Once through, Freya took a long look around the yard, taking in the space and those who occupied it. The main feature was a wide, round sparring ring encircled by a wooden rail. There was an area at the far end with targets set for knife throwing and heavily-padded wooden practice mannequins. A door just beyond led to what Freya guessed was the archery field.
Freya let out a quiet groan as she looked around, taking in the faces of her classmates—roughly twenty, if her estimate was accurate, including a handful of onlookers that had come in before the guards and prince had arrived—and finally, the commander, who stood speaking to one of his officers and Prince Aerelius near the knife-throwing targets. Averting her eyes before any of them saw her, she pointed toward a low bench against the wall on the other side of the dirt yard.
“Laz and Collin are over there,” she told Lea. Without waiting for a response, she made her way over toward where Lazarus and Collin had begun their warmup stretches, ignoring the slight pang of nerves that struck. She had the utmost confidence in her skills, but it had been quite some time since she’d had to demonstrate her abilities to others.
“This won’t be so bad,” Lea commented as she dropped down on the bench beside where her cousin stood. “Aer’s guards seem to be doing a fine job keeping the vultures out.”
“A few made their way in,” Laz muttered, bending at the waist to stretch his back. “A handful of Myria’s followers managed to sneak in before Balthana ordered the guards to block the entrance. I spoke with Aer and he doesn’t seem terribly thrilled about it.”
“Oh, I’m sure he isn’t,” Lea murmured. “The girl is vile. Although I don’t know what he expected when he decided to enroll.”
“Is he our trainer?” Freya asked, turning her attention toward the officer standing beside Balthana. He was tall, square-jawed and bronze-complected, with pitch-colored hair. His build was broad for a Lind, but even standing still he carried an edge of grace.
Lazarus nodded. “Officer Zane Ristheld. He worked under your father for quite some time in Allanor and retired from field work several years ago.”
Freya eyed the male in consideration. “Is he good?”
“Quite,” Collin replied. “If not a bit intimidating to some. He’s vicious in his shifted form.”
Freya gave a quick sniff, drawing in his scent as best she could from her distance. “Hawk?”
Lea nodded. “He’s all predator.”
As if on cue, Zane clapped the commander on the shoulder and stepped away to address the students.
“Eyes on me, all of you!” he hollered. The tenor of his voice seemed to match his harsh, imposing appearance, instantly demanding the full attention of those around him.
As Freya’s classmates faced forward, she made sure to fall into line toward the back where she could observe those around her a bit better. The commander didn’t miss her placement, though, and sent her a pointed look when he saw her.
Ignoring his stare, she focused her attention on her instructor.
“For those of you who’ve not met me, I am Officer Zane Ristheld,” he began once the din had settled. “You may address me as Officer Ristheld. For your first term at Aldridge, we’ll be covering the basics of combat. I am aware that some of you have come to me with a good deal of training under your belt, while others have not, so today, I will be assessing each of you and will sort you all into groupings based on skill level. Today you’ll be sparring with one another in basic physical combat—no weapons other than those you were blessed with at birth. If you’re a shifter, that means you can fight in your shifted form. If you’re a magic-wielder, feel free to throw some spells about.”
Freya stilled and looked around the yard, watching as her fellow classmates did the same. Flaring her nostrils, she inhaled the scents of those around her. In addition to Ristheld’s avian scent, she caught whiffs of feline, vulpine, and canine, along with a few magic-wielders—one witch and two warlocks, if she wasn’t mistaken—and something else she couldn’t quite place. It was a softer, more appealing magic, carrying the light scent of something sweet.
Someone was cloaking and doing a damn good job of it.
She smiled to herself, already accepting the unspoken challenge. That unknown… if she wanted to cement her place here, that would be her opportunity.
Ristheld began dividing them up into pairs, and she heaved a sigh when he directed her toward the end of the ring to spar with the pretty blonde Lady of Saith.
Freya returned Myria’s cocksure look with an appraising glance. She’d scented feline on Myria the day before, and as a highborn lady, she was likely one of the more ferocious cats—a lioness, most likely.
“Is this the part when you ask if we can start over?” Myria asked, putting her hands on her hips as Freya approached. “Begin with a clean slate?”
Freya snorted. “If I thought it worth asking? Perhaps. I’m certain that would be out of the question, though, and I’d think far less of you if you allowed it.” She glanced around the yard, taking in the space now that the other students were taking their places. It was large, enough that the ten pairs of students who were getting ready to square off had easily twenty- feet on either side to fight. Looking back at Myria, Freya wondered if that would be enough.
“So, little birdie,” Myria said, her tone smug. “Should I fear for my life, or will you promise not to peck my eyes out?”
Freya cracked her neck and shook out her arms. “I suppose we’ll find out.”
Myria huffed and shook her head, then dropped into a fighting stance.
“Begin!”
Faster than Freya expected, Myria spun, then kicked out, her booted foot stopped by Freya’s hands just as it would’ve connected with her ribs. Freya shoved hard, swiftly flipping Myria to the ground. Myria leapt to her feet, a low growl emanating from her throat. The two squared off once again, reassessing one another now that a mild indicator of skill had been given.
“Halt!”
She and Myria, along with the rest of the students, froze at the sound of Balthana’s bellow, standing straight as he made his way across the floor. He’d been silent thus far, slowly circling the yard, watching the other students, going unnoticed despite the vibrant hair that stuck out like a beacon.
He came to a stop less than a foot away from Freya, standing so close she could smell the mix of sweat and shifter that emanated from him. Clasping his hands behind his back, he looked first at Myria before setting his steely gray gaze on Freya.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
She tilted her chin up a fraction. “Sparring. You?”
He heaved out a sigh and raised his eyes to the heavens. “Enough of this nonsense, Freya. We had an agreement. Lift the glamour and be done with it already.”
Her cheeks flamed but she refused to break his gaze. “No.”
Not here not here not here.
The yard was silent as death, assuring her that no one would miss this exchange.
“Now.”
“No,” she growled. “You’re the one who sent me—”
“I allowed you to live in anonymity for six years.”
When she didn’t respond, he arched a brow. “Shall I do it for you?”
She stiffened. “You’re threatening me now?”
He leveled a glare at her. “No. I’m ordering you to stop being insufferable and do as you’re told.”
“Ordering me?” She snorted. “I’m not one of your soldiers.”
Myria sucked in a gasp and there was a flurry of hushed whispering to her right.
Balthana’s lips curved up into a smile that was part cruel, part warning. It was one Freya knew all too well.
Taking a hurried step back, she held up a hand and drew her magic forwar
d, preparing herself for defense. “Don’t you—”
Freya froze just as she would’ve thrown her power at him, immobilized as the magic that had been concealing her appearance for nearly six years slipped away. Her brown eyes melted into a deep, steely gray, while the sharper lines of her jaw softened. The willowy frame she wore shifted slightly, revealing sleek, defined muscles, clearly visible through the leather sheathing her legs. She let out a muttered curse as magic prickled along her scalp, transforming her long auburn hair to a deep chestnut and revealing the rose-pink streaks that wound through it.
When her father gave a small wave of his hand, she let out a yelp as her wings, now dusted with the same shades of pink as her hair, burst from her back.
She glared up at him, her feet silently slipping into a defensive stance and pearlescent wisps of magic swirling around her fingers as hushed whispers tore through the yard.
“Did you see that?”
“Is that his daughter?”
“She’s supposed to be in Iston!”
“Has she been here this whole time?”
“Do you see her wingspan?”
She’d hoped to remain inconspicuous for a week, continuing to ride the rumor that Byrric and Cina Balthana’s daughter was well-established in Iston, living among the other Valkyrie before she lifted the glamour that he’d allowed her to wear outside the capital. Now, thanks to her insufferable father’s need to let everyone know she’d returned, she’d barely made it two days.
Sneering, Freya gave her wings a heavy flap, flaring them wide in a clear challenge to the dove gray pair that were projecting from the commander’s own back.
“Do you know, Commander, that you’re a real pain in my ass?”
Byrric Balthana shrugged, then shifted his flat stare to Myria, who was standing gawping beside Freya. “Close your mouth, Lady Bryton, before you catch a fly.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Myria replied, her cocky tone long gone as her eyes darted between Byrric and Freya.
Chuckling darkly, he shook his head, then waved a hand, indicating to all the onlookers. “Everyone knows who and what you are now, Freya. Do you know what that means?” He lifted his brow in question.
“You’re shit at surprises?” Freya asked sweetly. A small choking sound slipped from Myria’s throat.
He pointed a finger at her in warning. “No. More. Glamours. I allowed it for long enough. Your fun is over. Are we clear?”
She ground her teeth together. “Crystal.”
With a nod, Byrric moved to walk past her. As he did, he patted her on the shoulder.
“It’s good to have you here, Freya.”
She grunted in response. Her lip curled up in annoyance when she saw the stares that lingered in her direction as her classmates sized up a new opponent. A moment later, the commander barked an order for them to get back to work.
All but one complied immediately, and Freya could practically feel his gaze burning straight through her.
Her jaw tensed in annoyance when she looked over Myria’s shoulder to where the dark-haired prince leaned against the wall, arms folded as his partner rubbed at his own wrist, wincing in pain.
When he gave her a slow smile, the warning was clear.
“So… I was thinking…” Myria eyed Freya’s wings warily. “Maybe we could revisit the idea of starting over?”
Freya laughed and shook her head. “Not a chance.”
Chapter 9
When Ristheld called for students to switch partners a short while later, Freya was thankful that Myria had given her a solid run for her money. When she’d shifted into her sleek, rust-colored lioness form, Freya had been certain she’d be easy to take down because Myria didn’t seem the type to have mastered any true defensive maneuvers. If anything, Myria had been a solid reminder not to make assumptions about one’s opponent. By the time they were through, both were sweating, a bit bloody, and out of breath. Between Myria’s speed as a cat and ability to alternate between full and partial shifts in mid-action, she’d given Freya one of the best workouts she’d had in months.
“Thanks,” Freya told her, retrieving a skin of water that was hanging from the nearby rail. “I needed that.”
Myria wiped sweat from her forehead and narrowed her eyes. “You ripped my pants and it’s going to take me a full day to heal from the sand burn you gave me.”
Freya sent her a dry look, then assessed the damaged material. She flicked her wrist, taking a small pleasure when Myria’s face paled as Freya’s magic stitched the fabric of her canvas pants back together.
“Better?”
Recovering herself, Myria took a large gulp from her own canteen, then slammed the cap back on.
“So you’ve got a bit of magic,” she growled. “Being a halfblood still won’t get you more than—” She froze and her glare slipped into a sweet smile as she looked behind Freya, where heavy footsteps were approaching.
“Aer! Here to spar with me?” Myria purred. Her smile faltered when the prince draped an arm around Freya’s shoulders.
“Not today, Lady Bryton.” Aerelius grinned down at Freya, who smirked up at him. “Officer Ristheld?” he called.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
A sly smiled tugged his lips. “I’d like to take on my old Valkyrie friend.”
“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” she called back. “I’ve been so eager to learn the prince’s secrets.” She gave Aerelius a sweet smile. “Hopefully he won’t go too hard on me.”
“Of course not, Lady Balthana,” Aerelius replied with a mocking grin. “Or is it Enrieth? I can never recall which parent’s surname you use.”
Ristheld nodded. “I’ll allow it.”
Arching a brow at Myria, who’d gone from fawning to fuming, Freya gave her a questioning look. “Shouldn’t you be finding a new partner, Lady Bryton?”
Myria opened and closed her mouth before looking desperately at Aerelius, who’d taken a sudden interest in his fingernails, then toward Ristheld, who was making his way toward them.
“Lady Bryton! You’ll take on Lady Calliwell.”
With one last stormy look in Freya’s direction, Myria strode off toward where Lea was waiting, hands on her hips. When Lea met Freya’s eyes, she gave her a look of warning, reminding Freya of her promise not to embarrass Aerelius in front of the entire school.
“I’m curious…”
Freya sighed when the prince spoke, then turned to face him. “Curious about what, highness?”
He tapped a finger on the arch of her wing—a daring feat, considering touching a Valkyrie’s wing was often cause for losing a hand, not to mention extremely intimate. “Are those wings still as cumbersome now as they were when we were children?” Folding his arms, he leaned casually against the railing. “You could hardly hold them off the ground back then. Always tripping over them, dragging them on the palace floors.”
“Not nearly as cumbersome as that ego of yours,” she quipped.
Officer Ristheld shouted for them all to begin.
“Are we restricting usage of power?” Aerelius asked her.
Angling her head to the side, she appraised him, realizing his magic was the scent she’d been so eager to take on earlier.
“No restrictions,” she said, although something in her mind screamed at her to recant. “Do your worst.”
Aerelius pushed himself off the fence, then crooked his fingers, and she felt a gentle tug low in her belly in response. His eyes, a mesmerizing shade of brown, held hers, beckoning her toward him.
The edges of her vision began to darken as her eyes honed in on his, which were soft and gentle, the color of chocolate fading into a vibrant green along the outer edges. It had been nearly six years since she’d seen him last, but surely she would’ve noticed such a lovely color before now, right? And the hard lines of his jaw… she could almost feel his smooth, golden skin beneath her fingers, the dusting of stubble on his chin, the high cheekbones that accentuated his ethereal beauty… the mem
ory of a kiss in the palace gardens flashed through her mind, a hand on her cheek…
Frowning, she took several slow steps toward him, then froze as unease struck. She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to shake off the odd feeling that was coursing through her, yet it persisted. She struggled to place it, but her mind felt… addled. Heat pulsed through her, causing her cheeks to burn, and there was a strange fluttering deep inside her torso.
She sniffed the air, trying to ignore the growing intensity of the feeling along her skin. Soft, like fingers dancing along her arms, her legs, down her back—
Freya let out a low growl as she was hit with the scent of a spirit-user, a warlock gifted at influencing all manner of emotions. Based on the fluttering in her stomach, the prince’s gifts lie in manipulating positive emotions—things like happiness and lust.
She took a heavy step back. Somehow, he’d been masking his scent, one she would’ve known instantly otherwise. It nearly pained her to move away from him, as the need to touch him had become almost unbearable.
His infuriatingly handsome smile did little to diminish that need. The feeling of lust pressing in around Freya was becoming increasingly more bothersome.
The prince’s eyebrows lifted slightly, beckoning once again, but he didn’t make any further move toward her. “Miss me, Valkyrie?” His voice was as smooth as silk when he spoke. “You seem a bit flushed.”
Yes.
Clenching her teeth, Freya shook off the thought and took a deep breath.
Two could play this game.
She deftly plucked a non-venomous feather from the lower edge of her wing, keeping her eyes locked on Aerelius, then pricked the back of her hand with the metallic tip of the shaft. The pain, the quick scent of blood, snapped her back to where she needed to be—clearheaded, ready to fight, and unwilling to fail.
Twirling the long plume between her fingers, she lowered to a crouch, her wings flaring out behind her. Then she smiled at the prince.
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and she realized, once again, that the yard had gone quiet.
