Page 17 of Feathers of Ash and Hope

My gaze flicks to Calix, who is right behind me in line, but we are both quiet. The test has three parts. The one we currently stand in line for is called the mountain run, an obstacle course that tests agility, balance, and tolerance of heights.

Sparring will be the second part of our test.

The sound of colliding metal and the dull thump of arrows flows over the constant chatter of voices around me. I look over just as a big blond girl buries her sword in her opponent’s gut.

Well, that answers my question.

I swallow and turn away while the guy sinks to his knees, blood coloring the sand at his feet. The wound might not be deadly for him with all the healers around, but it certainly would have been for me.

Despite all that, the test I fear most is the one for magical gifts—the questioning. If they find out I’m cursed… Acid floods my mouth, and my stomach rebels against the food I ate this morning.

I take a deep breath and examine the obstacle course in front of me to distract myself. Beams protrude from the wall of the building and hold a variety of wooden structures designed to test our balance and strength.

A candidate hurries over a tree stump suspended in the air by ropes two stories from the ground. Its surface reflects the sunlight, worn smooth by the feet that have passed it over the years, and it wriggles and moves with every step. He stumbles, and I involuntarily suck in a breath when he goes down hard.

His face slams into the wood before he slides off to the side. Thankfully, I can’t see him landing, my view blocked by a partial wall that belongs to the course as well, and the clinking of swords and the murmur of voices around me cover up any sound he might have made. I’m not sure he’ll get up again. Two healers hurry over to where he landed.

My gaze wanders over the buildings surrounding me. Their light color and big windows make them seem less massive and more elegant than our fortress even though the structure is very similar. Rows of columns form an open walkway that runs around the entire inner courtyard—the atrium, I heard others call it—a reprieve from the glaring sun and a way to reach everything dry-footed should it ever rain.

I turn back to the sparring area, where every station is operated by a rider who seems to call out the points. Two candidates face each other in hand-to-hand combat.

Back home, we don't practice fighting without weapons much, so I’ll have to improvise, especially since my brothers refused to punch me, even for training. Taunting them didn’t help either and only made me perfect the art of pissing them off.

Something is oddly satisfying about cracking someone’s control, but I doubt it will help me here.

A whistle blasts me out of my thoughts, and the candidate in front of me shoots off into the obstacle course.

I focus on him and not on the lifeless figure of the one who slipped as they carry him off on a stretcher. I’m not sure if he is only unconscious or worse, but I don’t want to dwell on it. Instead, I use the chance to watch the man in front of me move, noting all the points he struggles with and planning a route in my mind.

The obstacle course is higher than the one I’m used to from home and has a lot more moving parts, but I guess that makes sense if they want to test us for flying.

The candidate makes his way through the last part of the course, and my focus goes back to the beginning.

There are two possible routes. I can go around, take the path that is easier but thrice as long, or I can go straight up.

I shake out my arms. I never was one for taking it easy.

Anticipation surges through my body while nerves hum through my veins and turn my palms moist.

I bend down and pick up a handful of sand, spreading it between my hands and letting it run through my fingers, vowing to myself that touching the ground again means I made it through.

The whistle sounds, and adrenaline zings through my body. I charge at the vertical wall in front of me.

The blocks are stacked nearly seamlessly, leaving only small bumps and crevices to work with. But fortresses don’t build their walls with scalability in mind either.

I pull myself up to the top, jump up and run over a narrow beam, then fling myself at the rope that will bring me to the next level instead of playing it safe.

Jumping off saves me another few seconds. I roll over the wooden platform and bounce up just in time before it ends.

I climb up a net, the ropes rough under my fingers, then another rope, bars, and then the tree stump.

While I’m used to climbing, it is mostly trees, walls, and wooden obstacles, and the big difference is that they don’t move.

Like the sheen indicated, the tree stump is smooth, and dust and sand make it even more slippery.

Don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just move.

I step onto the wood and try not to think of the candidate I saw falling earlier.

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