Page 31 of FoolSilver
Aelindor’s voice held the last note alone until it faded into the crackle of the pyre and the hiss of the DarkVeil and the silence between the two.
I stood at the back of the assembly, tears running down my face, and I didn’t wipe them away.
The pyre burned. Sparks lifted into the gray sky, climbing, scattering, winking out one by one.
Caspian threw his head back and howled. Long and ragged and full of a grief that didn’t belong in a human throat.
The Spartans howled with him—rough, defiant, proud, answering their wolf prince. And a low, hoarse howl tore out of my throat.
We’ll hold the line until there’s no one left to hold.
Chapter 12
Max
“Your private combat instruction starts now.”
Marco had found me on a supply crate at the edge of camp, hands clasped behind his back, his pale face giving away nothing. Aelindor’s orders—accelerated weapons training, because the battlefield had proved I couldn’t always hide behind Coldiron and ranged attacks.
He was right. I’d survived the fight inside a moving pocket of protection, throwing chakrams from behind the backs of the princes and a platoon of elite soldiers. If a mutant got inside my guard, I’d die with a weapon I couldn’t use in my hand.
Marco tossed me a short sword. The weight surprised me. It was heavier than a pickaxe by half. I adjusted my grip.
Footwork first. Pivots, lateral shifts, the angled retreats that kept you out of a mutant’s charge lane. My boots scuffed the dirt in clumsy patterns while Marco circled me, correcting my stance the way you’d correct a crooked picture frame.
Then he came at me.
Not full speed. At full speed, I’d be dead before my brain registered the vampire’s movement. But fast enough that every block was a scramble and every parry left my forearms ringing.His training blade nicked my wrist. Then the soft spot below my collarbone. Each cut a lesson:Here is where you’re slow. Here. And here.
He corrected my guard three dozen times.
“You have reach,” he said. “Use it. Stop fighting like a short person.”
Everyone had to point out my height.
I trained until the light turned amber and my arms hung dead at my sides. My calves had knotted into cables. Sweat stung the bruises Marco’s practice sword had left on my skin.
Near dusk,a jeep halted by the training ring. Frost sat behind the wheel, impeccable as always.
“Come with me, Max. You’ll dine with Prince Aelindor, Prince Drakken, and Prince Caspian at Greyhold tonight.”
I stared at him. Then I lifted my arm, caught one whiff, and put it back down swiftly. I’d been sparring with a vampire for six hours, and he hadn’t gone easy on me. And now I smelled like a salt mine in July.
“But I’m… I’m sweating, Major. A lot.”
“Good thing you’ve got an hour.” The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You can shower at Greyhold.”
He drove me to a low, stone-walled house set apart from the barracks—the officers’ quarters. Down a corridor, through a door, and into a suite with a large bed, a wooden wardrobe, and a window that faced east, away from the DarkVeil.
The scent hit me before my eyes adjusted. Winter. Wind. Pine. It was Aelindor’s room. I stood in the doorway, breathing his scent in, and the longing hit me square in the chest.
The shower was lukewarm. I scrubbed six hours of dried sweat from my skin, worked the tangles from my hair, and tried very hard not to think about the fact that I was naked in Aelindor’s bathroom, using his soap, surrounded by his intoxicating scent.
I failed completely.
When I stepped out, a stack of folded clothes sat on the counter. A soft cotton shirt, dark blue, flat collar. Trousers in a charcoal fabric with actual give. Both in my size, which was a minor miracle.
Then I found a pair of panties, folded neatly at the bottom. My face flushed so hot it reached my ears. I’d been wearing men’s briefs since I’d arrived at the fortress, the only option in a barracks designed for male cadets.
