Page 70 of Forcing Fate

“Set—Start!” Commander Dewal’s voice carried across the field.

Men started the exercise, and he walked through us correcting forms. We were to do sit-ups until he ordered us to switch places. This was merely to get an idea of general fitness and rule out any handicaps.

Victyr was sweating and breathing heavily when he got to eighty reps. We were ordered to switch at eighty-five, and he groaned and collapsed back to the ground. Perhaps he would be too exhausted to make any awful remarks, one could hope.

“Move it!”

He hurried up, and I laid on my back, pulling my dress around my ankles.

“Hands over my dress, please,” I said. I knitted my fingers behind my head and squinted against the unforgiving sun.

His hand slipped under my skirts and grazed my calf.

I didn’t think.

Kicking out as hard as I could, my heel hit something hard. He cursed, holding his nose as blood dripped down his chin. All the recruits stared, mouths open in shock, and Commander Dewal started toward us.

Seething, I scowled at Victyr. “I told you–”

“I don’t care what you told me, you whore!” he snarled. “I’ll do what I want with you!”

He lunged for me and I scuttled back on my rear, putting distance between us when a shadow blocked out the sun. I craned my head back to see General Rafe’s face clouded in anger.

“Name!”

“Avy–”

“Not you!”

I snapped my mouth shut and looked at Victyr, who still pinched the bridge of his nose. Splotches of blood splattered the front of his tunic.

“Victyr.”

“Victyr what?!”

“Victyr… of Remeth.”

General Rafe took two monstrous strides toward him and grabbed him by the tunic, hauling him to his feet. “You call me sir or General to my face,” he hissed, though his deep rumbling voice came out more of a growl. “You can call me whatever you like behind my back, but to my face, you will address me with respect.” With that, he threw him to the ground and watched as he scrambled back in fear.

“Get up!”

Victyr scrambled back to his feet, standing rigid at full attention. Blood streamed from his nose.

“What’s your name?!”

“Victyr of Remeth, sir!”

General Rafe threw a meaty fist into his face. The blow had him staggering back to the ground. He cradled his jaw and glared at the General not saying a word.

“If I catch you feeling up a fellow recruit again, I’ll skewer you and hang you on the gates, as an example to the rest.”

“But she’s a–”

He reached down and grabbed a fistful of tunic, jerking Victyr up to his feet before punching him in the face again. When he crumpled to the ground this time, he didn’t dare look up at the General.

“You talk back to me, boy, and I’ll do more than just dismiss you. I’ll make your life a living dung-heap.”

I couldn’t tell from his breathing if Victyr was in pain or panting in anger, but his breaths came fast.

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