Nick texts right as I drift off in bed:
Hey, my dad sent a plane for me. Said I needed to join him at Northern and show face at the other chapters. Things are getting worse up here, just like there. Gates opening where we haven’t seen them before. I’ll be back for Thursday’s trial. Gillian’s good—trust her. You can do this, B.
* * *
Monday with the daggers is far worse than Sunday with the longsword.
I lose every match with Greer. They have years of training on their side and use their long arms and legs to every advantage.
After, they help me walk to William’s with a sore tailbone and a smattering of bruises from one side of my rib cage to the other, and from sternum to belly button.
According to Gillian’s calculations, if the blades were real, I’d have been gutted thirty times.
When I get home, I force myself to walk normally in front of Alice.
* * *
On Tuesday, there is no demo, but Sel shows up anyway. To watch, it seems.
He’s not the only one. Vaughn and Blake, and even Sydney now, watch my drills and smile smugly in the corner of the room.
I don’t need to hear them say it. Their eyes and laughter communicate clearly enough: no Scion would ever select me.
Each night there’s a cycle: I tell myself I don’t care what they think. Then, because I’m not used to losing, frustration wells inside, spilling into my limbs and burning muscles, and I push myself to get better, train harder. Later, while William heals my wounds—three broken fingers, a broken elbow, a bruised kidney and ribs—I remember that I’m not planning to stay. That this isn’t truly my life. And the cycle begins again.
Only Whitty and Greer seem to take pity, but any kindness they show me during our sparring matches is immediately caught by our trainers, who deal out punishment to us all in the form of laps or push-ups or tire flips.
* * *
Wednesday night goes horribly.
“Sydney, you’re up. Pick the weapon.”
Sydney walks to the rack and pulls the quarterstaff. By now I know that she and Blake are in a silent battle to become Pete’s squire, so I’m not surprised she picked the staff. We’d never be friends, but after the hellboar trial she’d at least treated me with respect.
I already know Owen’s going to call my name. I feel it in my gut.
“Bree.”
At the end of the line, Vaughn’s laughter is a deep, mocking rumble.
“Can it, Schaefer,” Gill warns.
Greer uses the distraction to lean close. “You’re taller than her and have a longer reach, but she knows that and will go for the sweep.”
I nod a silent thanks and make my way to the rack. When I turn back to the ring, I see Sel slip through the open door and take a seat on a bench near the wall.
Owen lays out the rules of engagement. “A match is won when your opponent yields or when they take a step outside the line.”
We step inside the blue ring and stand in starting positions, staffs at an angle across our bodies, one grip facing down, the other up. Owen gives the signal.
Sydney whips up; I block before it hits my ribs.
She dances back. I surge forward for a strike to her shoulder. She blocks. Counters with a low swing. Wood cracks against my shin, and pain blazes up to my knees.
Satisfaction glows in her eyes. She’d been waiting for that opening, and I’d walked right into it.
I stand—her staff flies toward my neck—and duck.
She throws her weight into a thrust at my solar plexus. I block, pushing her weapon to the left of my waist. It forces her off-balance, and I lean right so she falls forward. She plants her staff hard just before the blue line, halting her momentum before she tumbles out of the ring.
I should have used that opportunity to drop her to the mat.
She pushes off, pivots on a heel, and twirls her staff to strike at my temple. I panic and lean back too far. Miss the attack, but fall hard on my ass—
Her staff is at my throat.
“Yield,” she pants.
Everything happened so fast. Too fast. My throat bobs against her weapon.
Sydney presses lightly against my neck.
“I yield!” I snarl, knocking her staff to the side.
A few days ago she would have helped me up, if begrudgingly.
Now she smirks and walks away. The other Pages clap lightly at her performance.
I curse and roll to standing. When I recover my staff, I find Sel’s eyes on me from the bench where he’s leaned forward on his knees, chin on his palm. I’d forgotten he was here. Heat spreads over my throat and chest when I realize he’d watched me fail horribly, and with his personal weapon of choice.
Greer manages to best Blake with the practice sword, disarming him in a few minutes. Vaughn uses his weight and size to press Whitty out of the ring before they exchange more than a few blows. Whitty curses and throws his blade down, the maddest I’ve ever seen him.
Gill calls it a night. Her eyes linger on mine when she reminds the group we can use the rooms any time we want to practice before tomorrow’s trial.
Right as I meet Greer at the door, I feel Sel’s gaze on my back. I haven’t spoken to him all week, but there’s an expectant weight in the sensation of his eyes.
I sigh. “You know what? I’m gonna stay for a bit. You go on ahead.”
Greer raises a brow. They look over my shoulder at Sel sitting on the bench, then back at me. “You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s fine.”
He waits until their footsteps disappear down the hall.
“Do you want to be a Squire?” His voice is inches behind me, and I yelp even though I should expect his silent approach at this point.
I frown, not sure how to answer. Do I want to achieve the title? Yes, so that I’ll be powerful enough in the hierarchy to demand an audience—and the truth—from the Regents. Do I want to fight in this war as a Squire?
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“I do, yes.”
He hums. Then turns, shucking his jacket and tossing it onto the bench behind him as he moves to the center ring. Then he stands there in his usual black tank and loose pants, rotating his wrists and stretching until corded muscles stand out on his forearms and biceps.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve decided that watching you fail this spectacularly is too painful to bear. Get over here.”
“What?”
He rolls his eyes. “I’m offering to train you, silly thing.”
“What happened to ‘Briana’? I like that better than ‘silly thing.’ ”
“Stop stalling.”
I toss my towel into the linen basket by the door. “There’s no way I’d let you train me.”
“Why?”
“Why do you want to in the first place? You can’t want me to succeed.”
He bends to stretch one arm to an ankle, but I can still see the upturned edges of his smile. “Let’s just say that I am not particularly fond of bullies at the moment, and the way they attack others’ weaknesses. It would please me to watch yours fall tomorrow.”
I jut my chin out. “I don’t believe you.”
“Obstinate creature,” he huffs under his breath. “Come here. I am serious. I swear it.”