Page 14 of Kingmakers, Year Three

It does . . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s like he can’t even feel it.

It evokes no anger in him, no pain. I may as well not even exist.

Snow responds by hitting me in the face two, three, four times in quick succession. The last punch feels like an explosion in my head, like he shoved a stick of dynamite in my mouth and lit the fuse. I fall straight backward.

I sink all the way through the mats, down, down, into the blackness of the earth.

Faintly, a low voice murmurs, “Class dismissed.”

I hear shuffling feet.

No jeers, no exclamations, not even from Vanya.

They’re all as shocked as I am.

Or as shocked as I was, when I still had conscious thought.

I drift in darkness, until I feel something cold pressed against my face.

Snow has hauled me to my feet and sat me on a stack of mats. He presses a bag of ice against the swollen left side of my face.

His broad face swims into view. Unmarked by any punch from me—bearing only the scars of better men.

His blue eyes stare into mine. Still clear and hard as ice, but not cold. Instead, I see something far worse in them, something more painful.

I see pity.

“I’m not your enemy,” Snow says.

“Then I’d hate to see what you do to people you don’t like,” I mumble, through bruised lips.

Snow chuckles.

“You show promise, Dean. You’re bold. Your technique is reasonably good.”

I bristle. Even after that humiliating defeat, I deserve better praise.

“But you will never learn to conquer your opponent if you can’t conquer yourself.”

“There’s no one more disciplined than me,” I retort. “I never miss a day of training. Never eat one fucking thing I shouldn’t. I honethe mind and the body.”

“And what about this?” Snow says, laying one heavy, calloused hand on my chest.

I shake it off, irritated by his presumption.

He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know anything about me. What the fuck is he even talking about? A lot of spiritualistic nonsense.

“Iwillbe the best fighter at this school!” I inform him. “And that includes you. By graduation day?—”

“I’m only staying a year.” Snow stands up. “I came here as a favor to the Chancellor.”

“To teach us to box?”

“Actually, he needed a new medic,” Snow chuckles. “Herman Cross retired. My wife Sasha is a doctor. She agreed to fill in for a year until they could find someone permanent. I’m just tagging along.”

“Oh,” I say, not sure how to respond. I hadn’t imagined Snow having a wife and possibly children. He hardly seemed human, before this moment.

“Keep ice on that face,” Snow says, standing up. “I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

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