Moonbound: The Shadowed Beta's Daughter

CHAPTER 4

"Make it sound true."

No one ordered. A thick, redacted ledger note, Rowan's uncomfortable giggle, and my mother's hair on my thigh. Three days after I visited the archives, my father watched me from the training yard.

The public evaluation was today. Random pairings fought before training teachers and anyone else who wanted to watch. The Trials' future and possibilities. Sweat and determination saturated the air.

The "Torin" paper was mine.

The crowd murmured. Son of Kaelen. My recent public "victory." Not a mistake. Garok's steely gaze showed satisfaction. Someone planned this. Teaching moment. Too awful. Just nudge.

Torin entered the ring confidently shrugging. He smiled at me and bowed too deeply to the little crowd as a joke. "Blackclaw, make sure you don't trip over your own feet again."

Polite laughter. Dad crossed his arms and stared blankly. Rowan also shifted weight and looked beyond the ring.

For practice, I held the sword. I was acclimated to its weight, and my muscles balanced it better than they knew their name. Within three moves, I could have seized Torin's weapon in Dawn Grove. Five for artistic expression.

But the daybreak woodland was secret. I was Aerys the Inept with the dreary skies and drab appearance.

"Go!" It was loud from Garok.

Easy move: Torin entered and hit from above. Strong but not surprising. My instinct was to cut his ribs from the side. Instead, I awkwardly raised my blade with both hands to block. My arms shook from the hit. I displayed it and retreated.

"Torin, move in closer!" She's mad! Kaelen proudly called from the stands.

Torin repeatedly beat him. I barely met them because the power made me shaky and my blocks and steps slow and broad. I was inept and lied often. It exhausted me. More tiresome than fighting. I fought with every cell to stop this performance.

Hard hit on my shoulder. The crowd exclaimed "ooh!" I growled in discomfort. Nearly lost my mask. I became furious suddenly. *I could break your wrist. You could lose your legs. I could—*

"Girl, focus!" Garok roared with anger. "Or are you just someone to practice on?"

Torin gained confidence. He flashed and tried a complicated disarming trick he had just learnt. He opened his back for one second.

A good start. A present.

A brief, exquisite moment of reflection. Wide open space in front of me. I watched him drop a step and put his hand in the other's kidney. A practice blade wouldn't kill anyone, but it would work well. The laughs would stop. My dad's icy, closed eyes would appear more open. Rowan must see.

Something inside me yearned for brightness.

My dad then stared at me. Like a pail of icy water. It made me chilly and terrified, not better. Remember your role.

That instant, everything was done. My goal was to misread the beginning. I embraced his uncomfortable attempt to disarm me. We sword-locked. Suddenly astonished by my proximity, he groaned and pushed me hard.

Released.

When my practice sword fell, it banged loudly. Backwards, I hit the ground hard on my back with my arms waving to look like anything was happening. A stunning defeat image.

The crowd sighed in relief, sadness, and anticipation. Torin stood above me, panting. eventually was first confused by his win, but eventually recovered. Victorious, he raised his sword.

"Match!" Garok remarked, "finally," and his tone made it apparent.

My tailbone jolted as I was on the ground. Lies tasted like mud and copper to me. Past Torin, not at him.

Before turning away, Rowan frowned. Not mad. Maybe pity. And a tired, deep relief that the awkward performance was over. He clapped Torin on the back and joined the crowd walking to the next ring as he left.

My dad was absent. Viewers absorbed his lesson. His daughter was meaningless. No need to concentrate.

I got up and brushed my pants. I wasn't embarrassed, but my cheeks were burning. From my saved rage. This wrath was fanned by the blank notebook and every glance of contempt. Just under my skin.

After winning, Torin said, "Better luck next time," without being nasty. Hand outstretched.

I took my blade and disregarded it. It seems that my silence bothered him more than my words. He shrugged and left, receiving his congratulations.

I became a ghost again at the yard's edge. The following matches were uncertain. I saw the flaws, voids, and realities others missed, not where they hit.

"You messed up your footwork when you disengaged."

His voice came from behind me, at my shoulder. Frostvale's Caelan. He stood by and watched the following fight without looking at me. He carried two water bags. He gave one.

Finished it all. Water was chilly. I responded, "I know," sounding flat.

"You handled his flourish. I spotted you looking.

My blood stopped. I pulled down the skin and remained emotionless."I saw nothing. I lacked equilibrium.

Finally, he looked around. He had smooth, murky gray eyes like river stones after a long time in the sea. "Do you?" He kept quiet for a while. He just saw me watch bouts. Two weeks till the Trials' first cut.Survival in nature. You're in the Whispering Depths with others. "There isn't anyone to watch."

As weighty as my mom's silver, the message hung between us.

"Why are you saying this to me?" Softly, I spoke.

"Because in the Depths," he added, looking serious at the sparring ring, "what you really are is the only thing that matters." Not what you pretend. Stopping, he replied, "And doing that gets people killed."

He left me with a racing heart and wet skin.

Fourteen days. Some folks. No one watches.

Not free. It was an unusual test. In which telling the truth could kill.

My mind racing, I put the practice sword back. I spotted a cloth-covered box behind the weapon stand base. It wasn't placed by the quartermaster. It was overplanned.

I saw no one watching me. The last exciting game between two top teams drew many spectators to the yard. While clutching the bundle, I crouched and pretended to mend my boot.

In the dark lane between the barracks and grain store, I took it out of the box.

It contained a small, rough whetstone for sharpening tools in the woods. One fresh blood-red, spiky wolfrose tip. Another paper encased them.

No stitched words. Two strange, close-set lines:

Silver is the key.Lock in Depths.

I noticed a little glow on the thorn tip. My father did not give me this. Like the hair lock, this originated. A forgotten secret summoning me from my present fissures.

Losing in the ring no longer bothered me. A silly show.

A secret game was played. Someone in this group, like a ghost, was preparing me to play it. No fall instruction was given.

They taught me survival skills for solitude.