Page 60 of ColdIron
“Hey.” I glanced sideways, surprised anyone would voluntarily run beside me.
“Bryn.”
“I know. Heard you in class. I’m Max.”
“Everyone knows the name of the new warlock.”
“I’m not a warlock.” I sighed. No one believed me. If Prince Drakken deemed me a warlock, then a warlock I was.
“Doesn’t matter to me,” she said. “I don’t judge. I’m a lesbian and a woman of color.”
“You’re white.”
“And white isn’t a color? That’s racist, Max.”
“Why are you out here?” I almost smiled. “Don’t tell me you got punished too.”
“Guilty.” Her grin widened. “When you bleated like a sheep—that’s what that was, right?—I let out a giggle before I could shove my fist in my mouth. So here I am.” She didn’t look remotely sorry. “Worth it. Prince Drakken noticed me.”
“That might not be good news, catching the dragon’s eye.” I spoke from personal experience.
She cocked a pierced eyebrow. “Ever heard there’s no bad publicity, amigo?”
“Can’t say I agree.” I gave her boots a covetous glance. “At least you still have your boots.”
“And I only have to run three laps.” She looked down at my bare feet, sympathy crossing her face. “You’ll need the medic by the end of twenty. If the prince allows it.”
My feet would bleed. The skin would tear. I’d had worse.
“I don’t get it,” Bryn said, matching my pace. “Drakken’s always been fair. Loved across the academy and the army. I’ve never heard of him singling anyone out, let alone punishing a cadet for how they walk. The warlock label didn’t help your case, but he’s never had issues with other witches in camp.”
“Guess I’m special.”
“You sound bitter, but I don’t blame you.”
“What I wouldn’t give for your boots right now.” I steered away from the edge. Sarcasm wouldn’t lift my spirits, and I couldn’t afford to spiral. Survive first. Feel sorry for yourself never.
“I’d lend you one,” she said. “But you’re a big boy with big feet, and mine are three sizes smaller.”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to bending my toes.”
“You’re cool, Max. Good-looking too. If I were into men, I’d dig you.”
“You haven’t seen my asshole side.”
“There are plenty of assholes here.” Her voice dropped. “Just watch your six. The Sorting is coming.”
“What sorting?”
“Mild term for culling. You know Greycrown trains elite soldiers and officers, right? Everyone here either has magic or superhuman strength—the one percent the Rupture’s flood of magic actually changed.”
Culling. The word sank through me like ice.
“How will they cull?”
“No one knows.”
“There’s been no culling before? Nothing for reference?”
