The training yard has long since emptied, leaving just the thick ache of my bruises and the raw embarrassment of my failure. I drop onto a low stone bench, shaded by a gnarled old oak, and set to work running my rag along the length of my staff.
Uncle Mat once told me that the soldiers in the Border Wars used to hide their panic in maintenance. It works, mostly.
The idea of dragging myself back to the dorm, past the other students, is unbearable right now. My muscles burn with fatigue, sharp and deep enough that the edge will linger for hours, even with the accelerated healing my kind has. The binding across my chest is worse than tight after all the sweat and movement; every inhale feels like a concession, not a relief. I rest my hand against my ribs, right on the spot where Kincaid’s s
