Page 31 of Trials of Dusk and Dreams
“The Knight Inquisitor?” Geraldine gapes. “Please, Lord. Don’t let it be him.”
Chapter 14
Bodin
Snow crunches under my boots as I stride into the frost-encrusted courtyard, our Shadow and her three mortal friends trailing behind. The biting cold nips at my exposed skin, but I ignore it. My focus remains razor-sharp: hone these mortals into something resembling competent fighters. Perhaps even teach them a lesson about nature.
It is unforgiving and relentless. The winter cares little for warmth or emotion. It will not bow to a heartfelt plea. Willow will not perform at her best if she worries about their safety. The sooner she learns to cut the distractions, the better.
“Two laps,” I bark, marching towards the stables where weapons for sparring await. “Now.”
To their credit, no groans erupt as the exhibitors shed capes and other cumbersome clothing before beginning their jog. As I retrieve the weapons—likely rusted or moldy after this morning’s revelation about Fox—I seize the opportunity to assess our new house inhabitants.
Peggy, the older woman with cropped hair and a stout figure, moves slower than the others but with unwavering determination. Geraldine, the younger female with ebony curls, appears frail, yet her eyes blaze with inner fire. But the thirdfriend, the male, sets my teeth on edge, especially when he murmurs something that makes Willow toss back her head in laughter before she loses her breath and continues running.
A low growl builds in my chest.
“Enough!” I shout, pointing to the weapons laid out on a patch of gravel peeking through the snow. “Pair up and join me. You and you together,” I order, singling out the male and Willow. “You two,” I nod to the others. “Pick a weapon each.”
Their ragged breaths cloud the air as they amble toward me like a herd of disorganized, lazy boars. The man—Max, I recall with distaste—shivers visibly, rubbing his arms. Weak. Tentative. A liability.
I begin my lecture, voice carrying across the frosty courtyard. “Mental resilience and physical awareness are crucial. You must ground yourselves in the here and now, even when every part of your body screams with cold.”
Pacing before them, each crunch of snow punctuating my words, I continue: “The first trial involves escaping a nightmare dreamscape. You’ll face anything from Terror attacks to psychological warfare. Know yourself—your fears, desires, capabilities, and breaking points. You may confront twisted versions of yourself or loved ones. Remember what’s real.”
I fix them with a hard stare, lingering on Willow. Bile rises in my throat when I shift my attention back to her companions. They’re dead weight, distracting her from self-preservation.
“The second trial,” I continue, “is straightforward: a physical threat. Terrors can break, burn, and bleed like you. In a nightmare dreamscape, defeating them depends on self-knowledge. In the flesh, exploit their weaknesses. Be fearless. Strike without hesitation—even if they wear a familiar face. Understood?”
They nod, but something flickers in Willow’s eyes before she masks it, fidgeting with her sword hilt. My jaw clenches.That weapon is inadequate. I make a mental note to retrieve—and improve—her homeland blade from Peablossom at the registration building.
“Finally,” I growl, “you’ll infiltrate the subterranean through a watergate. This combines the first two trials with unknown dangers. It’s enemy territory. Many don’t return.”
“Watergate?” Willow interrupts, eyes wide. “As in . . . swimming?”
The fear in her voice twists my gut. Fox’s letter, read five times this morning, emphasized her water phobia. “A short drop,” I explain, softening my tone despite myself. “Then you emerge in the Subterranean.”
“Define ‘short,’” she presses.
“Puddle-sized,” I admit. When she falls silent, I continue: “The key to winning the final trial is to stay focused on your goal—retrieve the assigned item and escape. Run from Terrors, ignore pleas for help, hide in shadows if necessary. Understood?”
They nod again, determination etched on their faces. My gaze lingers on Willow. She stands tall, silver braid catching weak winter sunlight, but tension radiates from her stance.
“Now,” I command, “show me what you’ve got.”
The couples spread out in the courtyard. The evergreen trees and pale spires looming behind the rear boundary fence are a reminder the Ivory Palace is always nearby. I fold my arms, assessing as they enter a lazy, sloppy sparring match—more witty banter than actual combat.
Rage boils within me. I scoop up a clump of snow, compact it, and hurl it at Max’s head. It connects with a satisfying thud.
“You’re not taking this seriously,” I snarl.
Fear flashes in his eyes. Willow’s jaw drops in outrage, but before she can protest, baying and snarling erupts from the stables. The Wildling attempts to breach the locked doors. Hewon’t get inside. The doors are floor-to-ceiling and locked tight. An idea comes to mind, and I turn back to them. “The next lazy attempt at sparring or disrespect earns you stable-mucking duty. Understood?”
They mumble assent.
“‘Yes,sir’ is the correct response,” I snap.
The sparring intensifies. I circle, observing. Geraldine’s footwork shows promise, but she telegraphs every move. Her wide stance leaves her vulnerable. Peggy swings her weapon like a club—all force, no finesse.
