Page 142 of Harbinger

“What does this prove?” I call after him, trying to ignore the dread pooling in my stomach at the thought of this lasting a minute longer.

“That you’re alive,” he yells over his shoulder without breaking stride.

Alive. The word hits me like a punch in the gut. I can run because I’m alive.

Kieren will never run again.

I shove the thought aside, but it’s enough to ignite a new fire inside me. So, I run until my lungs burn, pushing my muscles past their limit. My freshly healed skin chafes, but I don’t stop. Not anymore. Not when every time I do, the ache in my chest threatens to swallow me whole.

The sky feels too close, pressing down on me, sitting like a weight on my chest. The pressure is enough that my vision fractures slightly at the edges, my head starting to swim.

Bishop pauses at the bottom, takes one look at me, already poised to start another trip up, and mercifully doesn’t. As I finish, he retrieves a canteen from his pack and hands it to me first. I drink most of it, gulping it down like it can quench the blaze in my muscles before I remember that he’s with me.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse, passing it back to him.

But he shrugs. “It’s just running.”

Just running? Like there’s just seven hells? And I’m pretty sure I might be in one now.

I shake my head, still trying to get a breath deep enough into my lungs. “Is this some kind of test?”

“Isn’t everything?” He returns the canteen to his pack.

The sun passes high above, bursting through the rainy clouds and showing itself already headed down toward the western horizon. I have no idea how long we’ve been running, stopping long enough for me to recover, and then, Stars help me, running more. Hours, if it’s already midday. It feels like several lifetimes.

I brace for him to start up the mountain again, but he twists his neck, stretching it like he’s preparing to finally move on.

“Is it time for a sword now?” I ask, a fragile bubble forming around my heart.

“Not yet.” Bishop bursts it, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His measured tone is anything but reassuring. “Now you’re going to work on covering ground while moving sideways.”

“Nooo.” The word escapes as an almost inaudible moan.

“Different muscles,” he says, and I swear the ghost of another smirk flashes across his face.

The asshole is definitely enjoying this.

Moving sideways over wet stone turns out to be even more difficult than moving forward and back. The wind and rain continue to batter me until the sun is no longer high in the sky.

I look up from my nearly ceaseless shuffle from left to right, right to left, and find Bishop gone. I could stop, but my feet can actually tell whether they’re on wet stone or rock without looking now, which is a good thing because I think my brain froze in my skull sometime around midday. And I’m not quitting until Bishop realizes I’m not giving up.

He reappears and tosses me the refilled canteen. “Take a break.”

I resist the urge to weep as I unscrew the top. His eyes linger on me as I guzzle the water.

“Are you done yet?” he asks when I finally pass it back to him.

I square my shoulders, ignoring the inferno growing by the second in my calves, in my shoulders—seven hells, in every fucking muscle in my body. “With the water?” I force a flat smile. “The rest is yours.”

We both know that’s not what he meant.

His nostrils flare slightly before he finishes off what’s left in the canteen. My attention snags on the movement of his throat as he swallows, and for one treacherous, glorious second, I forget how much I currently hate him. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and tosses the canteen with his pack. “Let’s get back to it, then.”

I suck in a whimper. He won’t break me. He can’t.

There’s nothing left to break.

But when he picks up a loose paving stone and holds it out, I wonder if I’m wrong. I take it from him, nearly dropping it on my feet when he releases his hold on it. Air whooshes out of me, but I readjust my grip, the rock’s rough edges biting into my fingertips.