Page 38 of Feathers of Ash and Hope

I evade more than I block and have nearly no chance to strike back.

My attacker is a bull of a man with reddish-blond hair, his chest protected by a chest plate. He comes at me hard, slashing, hacking, one strike after the other. I have to evade and retreat again and again.

The sword arcs down, and I step back again. Only to bump into something hard—a tree. I bumped into a fucking tree.

I shift sideways and stumble, my concentration faltering for a second, but that is all it takes. My curse turns into a hiss when my attacker slashes across my chest. I bring my leg up and kick him off before he can do any more damage. He stumbles back, right into Calix’s sword.

I send Calix a relieved smile before looking down at myself and assess the damage. I prod at the red line that starts to color my tunic along the ripped edges and hiss.

The layers of wrap I used to hide my breasts provided some protection, but I already feel it give and slide.

“You okay?” Calix is in front of me, looking concerned. It has become quieter around us. I look around. Only two are still engaged in battle, and the attackers are either dealt with or flee as I watch. The tide turned quickly, not a given, considering we are mostly runners.

“Yeah. Thanks to you, I’m fine.” I heave out a breath. “I will just put something on that.” I gestured to the slash on my chest.

Calix winces and nods. “I'll see how the others are doing.” The clearing is too quiet after the commotion. What happened seems unreal, like a bad dream. But the bodies, the blood, and the chaos surrounding us say otherwise.

Only when the first bird starts chirping again do I realize the animals around us have been silent, too.

I head over to our tent, relieved when I find my pack and sword where I left them.

In the safety of the tent, I quickly slip out of the bloodied and torn tunic and knot together what is left of the wrap beneath. The curved cut travels from my left collarbone in the direction of my rib cage on the right side, ending between my breasts. The most damage is close to my collarbone, with barely a scratch on the bottom end.

It doesn’t seem deep enough to have severed muscle, which means one more scar for my collection. It will hurt like a bitch, but it won't restrain me too badly in case of another fight.

I guess I’ll have to wear high-necked dresses from now on.

Cleaning the cut with the water I carry and dousing it in something from the healing kit that smells like the cleansing stuff my mother always uses is all I can do for now.

I manage to clean and bandage the wound and slip into a fresh tunic before anyone comes looking for me. The wound would probably be better off with stitching, but I’m not sure I’d be able to stomach that even if I had the time. It would take a lot of stitches.

I get back to the others without anyone noticing my absence. Once I come closer, I realize why. Centurion Kyronos, Joel, and the other riders stand beside four unmoving bodies, looking grim and talking in low voices. We have lost someone.

When I step closer, Gaius and Clay are the only ones I recognize for sure. They were in my flight. Next to them lie two more runners, so we lost at least four of our division today.

We pack up silently while a few decorate the bodies. The birds will bring them up into the mountains. Skyriders don’t bury their fallen. They offer them to the birds, a start for new life to come. A practice I’m still getting used to.

While runners die at the academy too—sharp weapons, dangerous obstacle courses, vicious creatures, and learning to wield magic do take their toll—this feels different.

Kyronos's gaze rests on us until the last murmurs subside.

“We honor the memory of four brave souls,” he starts, and I’m instantly mesmerized by his warm, deep voice. “They were more than runners; they were brothers-in-arms, ready to lay down … everything for those beside them. In their brief time among us, they served with loyalty. They lived with honor, and their loss reminds us that protecting each other is the truest form of service.” I watch him while he speaks. He doesn’t wear his helmet. His dark hair is ruffled, and the stubble of his beard, the intensity in his eyes, and a streak of blood on his cheek make him look rough and dark, a stark contrast to the eloquent way he speaks.

“May they find peace and watch over us as we honor their memory through our actions.” He takes a deep breath. “Their journey is finished, but we continue.” For a second, pain flashes in his eyes, but his voice stays steady. “We carry them with us in each breath, in every step, assuring their sacrifice was not in vain.” Gods, this man is beautiful, and the way he speaks … He knows loss. I’m sure of it. That knowledge forms a connection, and the aching need to comfort him unfurls in my chest.

“We consign their souls to Elet, the mother who gives and takes. We will honor their gift and let it reinforce us whenever the path is dark and the cost heavy.” Kyronos closes, and I draw in a shuddering breath.

Damn him. That glimpse of pain beneath the perfect facade draws me in and makes him more intriguing.

Why does my centurion have to be so damn attractive?

I do my best to smother that attraction while we runners bide our time. The birds take the bodies away, and our centurion and the other riders discuss how we proceed. Normally, we would have spent another day up here, but now…

“We should fly. We could be ambushed on the way back,” the other squadron leader, Flavius, says.

“No, that would leave a small group vulnerable for hours,” Kyronos objects. “We are one unit. We’ll march back together.”

We walk in silence, only stopping to make camp when dusk is well upon us. The cut on my chest itches and burns, the fabric of my shirt chafes, the pack pulls on the skin around it, and the sweat seeping into it doesn’t help either.

---