Page 29 of Forcing Fate

Rage curled his lip. He shoved my face away from him, and I stumbled back. I fought the urge to hold my jaw, knowing the imprints of his fingers would linger on my skin. I straightened and glared at him for all I was worth. If looks could kill, he would be a dead man ten times over.

“Your ignorance of combat is showing,” he said. “A girl knows nothing of the battlefield.”

He turned, walking back to the company, who looked completely horrified that he had treated a woman that way. The Captain himself was as pale as a ghost, looking as though he might faint. I offered him a reassuring smile, even though my pride took a hit at the General’s words. He was right. I didn’t know anything about combat. It wasn’t as if he would teach me, either. He only wanted a seamstress to tend to his mending.

I walked over to a table against the wall where one of the General’s black, sleeveless tunics lay. It was torn along the side seam as if someone had pulled at it harshly. I picked it up and folded it neatly over my arm, taking time to gather my nerves. I knew the soldiers watched my every move, wondering what I would do next.

Would I demand a soldier to take up for my honor? Would I choose the Captain to fight for me as a Lady would if her honor had been impugned? They were no match for the General, who was a mountain of muscle, quick as a snake and just as vile.

No.

A slow, mischievous smile spread over my face as I turned to look at the General, holding his tunic to my chest. “I beg your pardon, General Rafe. I must retrieve my sewing notations. I will return your tunic by this evening.”

He sighed heavily and waved me out, as one might shoo an errant child. Pride still stinging, I left with my chin held high. I would not let him win this fight. After all, even a girl could get under a General’s skin.

If he treated me as though my only worth was as a seamstress, I would be a seamstress.

Chapter Nine

Somehow, I ended up on the school grounds, safe and unscathed. It might have been the rage that was written on my face that deterred the soldiers, or they simply chose to ignore me. Either way, I breathed a sigh of relief when I crossed the boundary under the guards’ frowning gaze.

I made my way to a school workshop under the shadow of the dorms. There, Master Elta taught the art of sewing. Many of the lesser Masters had workshops outside of the main school. The structures were small, holding around ten students. Master Elta was a kind soul, an older woman whose hands shook so badly she could no longer hold a needle. Her eyes, however, were as sharp as an eagle’s. She could guide a student’s stitching from across the room without ever leaving her rocker. She taught me how to mend years ago. I feared if she saw any of my recent work, she would be ashamed.

I held General Rafe’s tunic close to my chest and knocked on the wooden door. A hobbling figure moved past the dusty windows. After a moment, the door swung open, revealing the old Master. Wrinkles creased the edges of her eyes as she squinted against the sunlight. She leaned on her cane, and I hurried to explain my presence.

“Good morn, Master Elta. I was wondering if you might help me with something?”

“Eh? What’s your name, dearie?” she croaked. She didn’t have the best memory. I served as her assistant during my very first assignment, but that was months ago.

“My name is Avyanna, Master. I was wondering if you might help me with a project I’m working on?”

“Ah, yes, yes. I have a free moment if you need it,” she replied.

She hobbled back in, leaving me to grab the door before it slammed shut on me. Inside, she headed toward her rocker near a table covered with sewing notations. Items littered the entire surface, yet everything was in its place; needles tucked into pin cushions, fabrics wrapped and folded, and skeins of yarn wound and arranged by color. Everything was in order, as it always was.

Master Elta took her seat and sighed, as if happy to be off her tired feet. “Well, what is it?”

The bolstering fire I had felt earlier had abandoned me and cold anxiety took its place. This was wrong. Part of me wondered if she could read the guilt written all over my face.

“Let’s see it.” She held out her palm, waiting for the tunic. “What did you do?”

Biting my lip, I gave it to her, trying to hide my trembling hand.

She held the tunic up and as it unfurled, a deep frown crossed her face. “I know this.” Her thin lips pressed together as her bony fingers brushed the seams. “I know this, because I made it.”

Fear ricocheted through my ribcage. I swallowed. This was a mistake. My mind whirled, calculating how I might backtrack, get the tunic and leave when Master Elta’s harsh gaze snapped up to mine.

“Why do you have this?” she demanded.

I blew out a breath. “I beg your pardon, Master Elta, but I am mending General Rafe’s uniforms.” The words sounded steady enough, despite my stammering tongue.

“General Rafe is on the front lines. Where he has been for some time, fighting the good fight.” She lifted the tunic, as if I wasn’t aware of what it was. “Why do you have his garments?!”

“Master Elta, he is here. He has returned with an injury.”

She studied me for a long moment. Those all-seeing eyes danced over my face, and I was no longer the fiery, defiant woman in the barracks, but rather a deceitful student, caught in the act of rebellion.

My shoulders sagged with relief when she relented and returned her sharp gaze to the intricate stitchings.

---