Page 65 of The Mercy of Dawn

“Not all of them,” Kaia sighed. “Individually they’re tolerable. I even think a couple of them might actually do well. But together? They’re about as coordinated as a couple of field mice three days deep into a faelock bender.”

“Three days into a what?” Cyril laughed, but Kaia only waved her off.

“Let's get moving before you’re stuck getting a live demonstration,” she said, tossing her arm across Cyril’s shoulders.

As Kaia steered her down another offshoot of the gravel pathway, Cyril took one look back at the group. One of the men was talking, and rather passionately at that, and not a single other soul was listening to him speak.

She chuckled, shaking her head.

A gaggle of idiots.

Cyril watched quietly as, over and over, one of the trainee’s arrows veered so far to the side that it nearly ended up on someone else’s target. The fifth or sixth time it happened, followed by a slew of profanities, she spoke up.

“Can I offer a suggestion?”

“I—uh, sure?” The man eyed her over his shoulder and lowered his bow.

“Basic stance doesn’t always work for everyone.” She mirrored his position, with her feet squared off shoulder width apart. “If you find you're prone to drifting, you can usually correct it by adjusting your footing. Since you are veering right, try standing more like this.” Cyril slid her left foot back a couple of inches. “And try it a few times. You can always adjust more if you need to.”

The trainee looked from Cyril to her feet, to his own, and shifted his stance.

He still looked uneasy as he said, “Thank you?”

Cyril smiled.

“Don’t thank me yet. Try it first.” She motioned for him to continue. “Oh, and your shoulders—”

His head whipped back.

“What’s wrong with my shoulders?”

“You’re tense and pulling them up. Just make sure to breathe and keep them square.”

He examined himself, shaking out his limbs. A forced rush of air left his lungs. “Right.”

An arrow whizzed through the air, slightly closer than the last half dozen had been. He tossed a glance over his shoulder at Cyril, and she waved him on, taking a few steps away to give him some space. Another couple of arrows fired, and he adjusted his stance and fired again.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

It wasn’t a bulls-eye by any means, but he hit the target.

Sort of.

A strong wind might have spelled the end of his victory, but Cyril grinned.

“See?” she said, gesturing out to the target, “You just need to listen to what your body is telling you.”

He looked from her, to the arrow hanging onto the target by a thread, and back to her. He grinned. “Thank you, seriously, Miss—”

His grin faltered and tension pulled through Cyril’s body at the voice that came from over her shoulder.

“Lady Cyril giving out personal lessons? You should consider yourself lucky, recruit.”

She turned slowly.

Mikael stood behind her with his hands clasped at his back and his head cocked in that predatory way that made her skin crawl. He wore a look of cool neutrality that she knew well from Dion. The same bullshit move he pulled whenever he thought a bit of intimidation was overdue.

“I—uh, thank you, Lady Cyril. Commander.” The trainee ducked his head and made himself scarce.