Page 128 of Wings of Ash & Flame
“He’s never going to learn, is he?” She sighed.
Dawson chuckled low. “Apparently not.”
I should take my own advice. I shouldn’t be thinking about Dawson—not like that.
They reached another small patch of cleared grass, identical to the last twenty. Dawson signaled for them to stop. Packs dropped. He led them through the stretches he insisted on before every session.
“Ready?”
Alaire shot him a glare. “Oh, joy. Another day of Dawson’s delightful death traps.”
“Glad you’re excited,” he said dryly. “The final trial requires you to be prepared for anything at any moment. Today will be different.”
“Let me guess—more running until I puke.”
“Something like that.” Dawson smirked. “We’ll start with sparring before moving to the real fun.”
“Lovely.”
Before she could process, his boot snapped into her shin.
“Ow! Seven hells, Dawson! I wasn’t ready.”
“Your enemy isn’t going to announce themselves and wait politely. They’ll strike when you least expect it.”
Circling each other, Alaire catalogued the tilt of his body, his proximity—trying to anticipate his next move.
He launched a swift jab at her ribs. She blocked, countering with a kick he dodged effortlessly.
“Come on, Firework,” Dawson taunted. “You can do better than that.”
She growled in frustration. Without waiting, she launched a flurry of combinations she’d been perfecting during early mornings in the Crux. He evaded or blocked every one.
She wanted to pull her hair out.
“That’s your problem, Alaire—time and time again. You’re smart, cunning, ruthless when you need to be. But each time I prod, you respond emotionally. Your feelings aren’t a weakness, but when you lash out, you lose perspective. And it will cost you.”
Maybe her emotions made her brash at times. But they also made her who she was.
“The monsters out there”—she jabbed south toward the Retribution of the Ruined—“are hollow. Those who’ve chosen to be turned traded everything worth living for—love, connection. Their humanity for power and bloodlust.” She threw a punch he deflected with his forearm. Pivoting left, she aimed for his ribs. He shifted, her fist cutting through empty air.
“My emotions may cost me, but it’s a price I’ll always pay.” She aimed higher this time for his shoulder, but he caught her fist mid-swing, using her own momentum to push her back.
“They’re messy, wild, and get me in trouble. But they’remine.” She stepped deliberately into his space, palms splayed over his biceps, feeling every contour of muscle beneath the leathers.
She closed her eyes, her mother’s voice rising like Solflara’s flames:Darling, at all costs, you must protect your fire. The spark of your spirit—that defiance—cannot be taught. It’s innate.
A memory resurfaced.
Alaire cradled an injured turtle in her hands, its suffering bringing tears streaming down her cheeks. “Can we fix it, Mother?”
White light enveloped them. Her mother brushed away her tears, her voice warm: “Your tears for this creature, youremotions—that’s your fire, darling. You can be tenacious yet kind, empathetic yet tough. People are contradictions, more than what you see on the surface.”
Her mother had known the truth: Alaire’s contradictions were her strength. It was impossible to always seem strong, to hide behind an impenetrable mask.
No—that was Dawson’s role.
“You might have a point.” Dawson stepped away.
