Page 49 of Kingmakers, Year Three

Meanwhile, I’ve started my private classes with Snow.

I walk into our first session feeling like the king of the world. Like nothing and no one could touch me.

Snow quickly reminds me that if I’m the king of the world, then he’s Thor Odinson, and he can smite me any time he likes.

His fists are thunder and lighting. They beat me with pagan fury, reminding me of the difference between a god and a mortal.

“You’re telegraphing your punches,” he says, bouncing lightly on his toes, not even winded from our sparring. “Why can I dodgeyour punches when I’m twenty years past my prime? Because I can tell what you’re going to throw just by the position of your feet.”

I attack him again, determined to move my body as one unit, without my toes betraying my fist a split-second before it can land.

“Better,” Snow says, as one of those punches clips his jaw. “But you have to maintain it. As you get tired, you fall back on bad habits. This is true of all fighters—any tendency or pattern they hold, they try to stamp out. But as the body grows weary, they slip back into routine.”

Snow’s voice is deep and gravelly, ringing with truth. It’s become the voice inside my head, pointing out my flaws, reminding me of his lessons long after class is over.

His bulky frame is firm and immovable as a mountain. He never loses his temper. He never makes mistakes.

Snow is what discipline has made him. Forty-eight years beaten against the refiner’s anvil—now he’s harder than any sword.

I admire him.

I hated him at first, the day he humiliated me in front of the class.

Now I want his approval. And this is strange to me, because I never truly cared what Abram Balakin or Danyl Kuznetsov or my professors thought of me. Not as long as I got what I wanted.

I’m not sure I even care what my father thinks. After all, he’s never pleased, no matter what I do. And I have my own resentments against him for how he drove my mother away, and how he allowed our house to fall into ruin. He raised me in a garbage heap so all my life I’ve had to struggle against the shame of our past, the shame of our home, and the shame of who I am.

Snow is a man worth impressing.

He knows nothing of my family, and he doesn’t care.

He only cares how I perform here and now in this gym.

I attack again, harder and faster than ever before. This time I can see that he has to hustle to block my punches, and heisbreathing harder. I strike him on the ear with a glancing blow.

“Good,” Snow says. “You hit me once, in our first fight. That was a good combination. You were desperate, and it was the only time you didn’t telegraph what you were about to do. It was a strong blow. You’ve always been talented Dean; I can see that. But you have to be more than talented. You have to be the best. To be the best, you have to become a student of your craft.You cannot win through fury. Anger will never be enough—you need knowledge, mentorship.”

“That’s why I’m here,” I pant, striking out at him again.

“Yes,” Snow says, hitting me with a hard right cross that knocks me on my ass. “But I’m not sure you’re listening.”

After we spar, Snow brings out his phone so we can watch old tape of his fights.

“You attack hard in the first round, Dean,” he says. “Sometimes, it’s a good strategy. But not always. See this boxer—Ivo Chavez. I watched hours of tape on his old fights. And he did the same with mine. Both of us studied our opponent. When we fought, you can see in the first round he altered his strategy. We circled each other, seeing what each of us had changed. But look . . . as the fight wore on, he tired. And what do you see?”

“Jab, jab, cross, hook,” I say, spotting the other boxer’s pattern.

“That’s right. Sometimes it’s better to wait and allow your opponent to make his mistake.”

Dinner is chicken dumplings,a particular favorite amongst the students. The dining hall is packed. I see Kade Petrov and Tristan Turgenev struggling to find a seat, and I wave to them to take the empty spots next to Bram.

Kade sets down his tray, grinning.

“Dumplings and apple pie for dessert,” he says. “Must be my birthday.”

Bram gives Kade an appraising look. He’s heard Bodashka talking shit on Kade Petrov in our boxing classes, but he’s also seen that Kade is clever and a good fighter. For all Bram’s faults, he prefers skill over pedigree in his friends.

“I heard you were chosen as Freshman Captain,” he says to Kade.

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