Page 58 of A Storm of Fire and Ash
I glared at him.
Bastard.
I moved toward him again, determined to follow all of his instructions. I could feel the eyes of others around us, their gazes heavy and scrutinizing. A flutter of insecurity twisted in my stomach at the thought of failing in front of them and looking weak. I hated feeling this insecure and helpless.
As our swords clashed repeatedly, the metallic sound echoed in the air, a rhythm I began to find my flow in. Surprised, I actually started to enjoy this.
For the next hour, he had me practicing stepping, lunging, honing my footwork, and retreating quickly. I knew that disarming him was a far-off dream, but my confidence was steadily growing with each strike.
“Alright, no more playing around. Let’s be serious now,” he said suddenly.
My earlier zeal flew right out the gods-damned window.
“I thought we were being serious!” I whined.
In a heartbeat, I found myself on the ground, gasping for air as he knocked the wind out of me. The dirt beneath me tasted gritty and unpleasant, and as I coughed, particles flew into my mouth, making me choke even more.
I didn’t stand a chance.
Laughter erupted around us. Words like ‘pathetic’ and ‘who does this little twat even think she is’ filled my ears.
I lifted my eyes toward the assholes who stopped their training just to laugh at little ol’ me, I caught sight of Eryn. She watched me with a pitied expression, her lips curled into a sympathetic smile.
Remaining on my stomach, I turned my gaze back to Gavrin as he took a theatrical bow to his audience. Anger surged within me, boiling over like lava. I loathed feeling so small, so foolish, and the sound of their laughter pierced through my pride like a dagger. It reminded me of when I was younger... the girls making fun of me and taking advantage of my niceness, twisting it to their advantage, while the boys made fun of my skinny body and flat-chested appearance. They would even throw rocks at me and call me a “Witch” for having mismatched colored eyes. I went home crying to Mother and Father daily. Guess I never really got over that hurt.
I scanned the area and spotted a bow with two arrows’ resting on a nearby table. The arrows silvery tips glimmered. A determined smile crept across my face.
I pushed myself off the ground and grabbed the bow, quickly notching an arrow. My swollen eye would not be a problem; I had confidence in my aim and could probably shoot this arrow with my eyes closed.
As Gavrin began to walk away, a surge of adrenaline coursed through me. I drew my bowstring back and released the arrow, watching as it flew past him. It grazed his ear before embedding itself in the tree just in front of him. I knew the tip of the arrow was coated in silver and that small cut I just put on his ear would heal like a human, painfully slow.
I smiled.
His hand went to his ear, and his head slowly turned. The quiet hush that fell over the crowd was palpable, and someone behind me gasped in shock.
Gavrin wiped the blood across his armor, his eye filled with an unspoken challenge. “You missed,” his voice was cocky, and a few men next to him laughed.
Before he could even fully turn back around, I notched my second arrow and released it. The arrow’s sharp tip snagged the delicate fabric of his eye patch, yanking it away from his face with an abrupt motion. It sailed through the air with lethal precision before embedding itself into the rough bark of the tree that was behind him. The milky-looking eye was marred by an ‘X’ scar, its jagged lines etching across the discolored surface. Guess he did have an eye hidden beneath that patch after all. Though it seemed as if he couldn’t see out of it.
His smile dropped, but mine grew wide.
“I know,” was all I had managed to say. I turned sharply on my heels, intending to walk away, but the King cut me off, stopping me dead in my tracks. He applauded slowly, the sound echoing in the tense silence surrounding us, as he started to stride toward me with a smug grin plastered across his face.
“Marvelous! That was quite a show you just put on. You’re better than half my men. Tell me, who taught you to shoot like that?” King Aymon inquired, his tone dripping with condescension.
“Sir—I mean, Your Majesty,” I gasped, lowering my head in a reluctant bow. Each time I did it, it felt like a weight pressing down on me, a reminder of my status beneath him.
He was not my King.
“Speak,” he commanded, his voice firm, as if I were a mere pet awaiting instruction.
Nervously, I said, “My father, Your Majesty. He taught me.” My heart started to race.
“I could use your skills when we go to war with the Fae and the other disgusting creatures,” he spat and continued.
War.
The King snapped me out of my thoughts, “Where’s your father now, Miss Peachwood? I’d like to meet him,” he added, his words laced with malice.
