Page 38 of Kissed By the Gods
As we pass through the open space, I take in the men scattered around—warriors of all ages, their skin tones ranging from dark to pale. Some are broad-shouldered and hulking, others are leaner, wiry, but they’re all of them toned with nothing but muscle. Some lounge near the edges of a courtyard, sharpening weapons, adjusting armor, or simply watching the training.
A cluster of older men have gathered near a worn stone bench, their conversation low. Their words trail off and their heads turn in unison as we approach. Their eyes latch onto me, assessing, dissecting, before finding me unworthy. Some of them eye me as if they’d crush me in a heartbeat, but then their gazes fall on Ryot, striding ahead of me without paying them any attention. Their faces reflect more than just respect or obedience as they look at him; there’s something else—a mix of wariness and recognition. He’s someone they know better than to challenge.
And above it all—above the dust and the sweat and the clash of steel—there’s a sound I’d recognize anywhere, now. It’sthe thunderous rhythm of wings pounding the air in steady, relentless beats. I look up in awe.
The sky churns with violence. Faravars wheel overhead in brutal aerial drills, their riders clinging to their backs. There is no marked course, no neat formations, only man and beast pushing the limits of endurance and skill.
The beasts of war clash midair, snapping and shouldering each other aside, daring their riders to stay seated through each sudden drop or whip-fast turn. Some dive low over the sparring fields, threading between combatants and scattering clouds of dust with the sheer force of their wings. Others rocket skyward, only to fold their wings and plummet, pulling up right before they would dash themselves against the stone.
In one corner of the sky, two riders clash—swords drawn, wings locked as they spiral downward. At the last moment, one faravar bucks hard, throwing his opponent off balance, and the other peels away, screaming his frustration to the open sky.
I stop, mouth agape.
“Keep moving, rebel girl,” Ryot calls over his shoulder. “You’re not battling from a faravar’s back tomorrow.”
I tear my eyes away from the battle above, my heart hammering against my ribs. Every instinct begs me to keep watching, but I force my legs to move because he’s right. There will be time for learning about the faravars later. Hopefully.
We move past these larger fields, and Ryot turns hard to the left, leaving the prying eyes behind. We’re in a network of smaller training yards now, where the spaces are more enclosed. There are the same sounds of grunts and swords clashing, but with the addition of commands and the scent of fear and determination on the breeze. These smaller yards are separated by Vanguard.
“If you’re still breathing, you can still move.” This, from the Skyforge Vanguard training grounds.
As we walk past the Atherclad section: “Why did you bother drawing, if you were going to miss?”
“Aim true or get out.” I hear from the Fellsworn area.
Ryot leads me through twin stone pillars that read “Stormriven.” There are even more sections in here, little squares separated by high walls and wrought iron gates. He leads me through a gate with time-worn, barely-there text inscribed on the handle. I think it says Rav’eth, but I can’t be sure. I don’t read that fast.
In here, weapon racks heavy with swords, daggers, spears, bows, and even lances border a packed strip of earth. The air carries the scent of sweat and dust, and the sounds of sparring—of grunts and the clash of metal—fills the space.
Three men stand along the edges of the arena, in the way that men so often do—arms crossed, looking fierce. They all have long hair, though each wears it differently.
Thalric has neat braids, every strand perfectly in place and the sides of his head are shaved. Nyrica’s here, too, with his brown hair pulled back in the same messy bun.
A man I haven’t met yet wears his dark hair loose and wavy, falling to his shoulders, and watches a group of sparring boys with a quiet but assessing gaze.
The three older men are barking out orders—correcting a stance, calling out a flaw in footwork as the younger men fight.
Leif, from the infirmary, is one of the younger ones. He moves with an easy confidence, though a fine sheen of sweat coats his face and shoulders. He fights with two others. The youngest one—still with the last traces of boyhood on his cheeks and a quick, eager grin that doesn’t quite belong in a battle ring—lunges forward recklessly. Leif steps back smoothly, pressing his blade against the boy’s side with barely an effort.
“You’re too eager, Kiernan!” The tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed man calls from the sidelines. “Pay attention!”
Kiernan’s face flushes with embarrassment, but his lips press together in a determined line and he nods. He’s the shortest—compact, but wiry. His auburn hair is cropped short, and his face is completely clean-shaven. Maybe it’s that, and his eagerness, that makes him look so young.
The third young man steps forward, an arrogant smirk on his face. He’s the tallest of them, and his broad frame suggests he’s more of a man than a boy. Maybe 23? 24? His jaw is shadowed with the beginnings of a full beard, and his shoulder-length dark hair is pulled back into a messy horsetail braid, with fly-away wisps framing his face as he moves. He looks like he was carved from stone by a sculptor—strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth made for kissing. He’s the insufferable kind of gorgeous, the type that turns heads without trying and knows it.
He's got a bow slung over his back, but that’s not the weapon he’s using. Gorgeous has a full collection of throwing daggers on his chest of all different sizes, and a long dagger in one hand and a short dagger in the other.
“Alright, Leif. You can handle a boy. Let’s see if you can handle a man,” Gorgeous says, as he draws one hand back to loose a dagger. At the same time, I snort at his arrogance.
It’s not loud, not meant to be disruptive, but Gorgeous jerks his head toward me, confusion flickering in his brown eyes. His throw goes wide. Leif takes full advantage. With a well-placed sweep of his foot, Leif knocks Gorgeous off balance, causing him to crash into the dirt. A puff of dust rises around him.
Leif grins at him. “That was sloppy.”
“That was cheating,” Gorgeous says from the dirt. But even the dust that’s now coating his face doesn’t detract from his physical appeal.
Leif flashes an easy smile and offers his hand. “That was taking an opportunity.”
Gorgeous lets Leif haul him up, brushing the dust from his trousers. Then he grins at me, slow and deliberate.
