Dust and Iron
935 Words
The indoor sparring hall was a cavernous stone vault that smelled of fresh sawdust, oiled steel, and old sweat. Heavy iron weapon racks lined the perimeter walls, stacked with blunt wooden broadswords, short spears, and iron-rimmed training shields. Iron rings dangled from the high stone arches overhead, cold and silent in the morning gloom.
Thirty Unbound cadets stood at attention in three rigid rows across the dirt floor.
Commander Jaxen Cross walked down the center aisle. He didn't carry a weapon. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his dark uniform crisp against the pale dust rising from our boots.
He didn't give a welcome speech. He didn't explain the history of the academy.
"Form pairs," Jaxen commanded, his voice cutting clearly through the drafty hall. "Hand-to-hand combat. No weapons. The trial ends when your opponent submits or touches the dirt."
A cadet two rows over, a thick-set guy with a fresh bruise across his jaw, scoffed under his breath. "We haven't even had breakfast yet."
Jaxen stopped dead in his tracks. He didn't turn around violently. He didn't shout. He simply pivoted on his heel and looked at the cadet with pale, dead eyes.
"Out," Jaxen said flatly. "Report to the lower gates for perimeter wall duty. Double shift."
"Sir, I was just..."
"Now," Jaxen cut in, his voice dropping an octave.
The cadet swallowed hard, his face turning pale. He lowered his head and walked out of the hall in complete silence, the heavy iron door slamming shut behind him.
The rest of us stood frozen. Nobody breathed. Ironfang did not waste time with warnings, discipline was expected.
"Pairs," Jaxen repeated, resuming his slow walk down the aisle.
I turned to my left, pairing up with a lean, sharp-featured girl named Rhea, who had spent the entire morning sprint right behind me. She didn't smile or nod. She immediately raised her fists, stepping into a low, balanced stance.
"Begin," Jaxen ordered.
Rhea moved instantly. She closed the distance before I could set my feet, driving a fast, straight jab toward my face.
I managed to turn my chin, ducking shoulder-first into the strike, but she anticipated the roll. Her right knee drove upward into my ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of my lungs, making my vision spot with white heat. I stumbled back, my boots sliding in the dirt as I tried to reset my balance.
She didn't give me time to breathe. Rhea stepped in again, wrapping her arm around my collarbone and driving her hip into my thigh. A second later, the ceiling spun, and I hit the dirt hard on my back.
Pain flared through my bruised elbow from yesterday. I gasped for air, staring up at the stone rafters as Rhea stepped back, panting softly.
"Again," a cold voice said from above me.
I looked up. Jaxen was standing at the edge of our ring, looking down at me.
I shoved myself up from the dirt, wiping sweat and sawdust from my jaw.
"Your weight is back," Jaxen said, stepping forward. He didn't look at Rhea. His pale eyes were locked entirely on my posture. "You die on your heels."
"I'm adjusting," I rasped, trying to catch my breath.
"Adjust faster," he replied clipped.
He reached out, his hand gripping my right shoulder to push it forward an inch while his knuckles tapped the inside of my left elbow, raising my guard.
It was a standard, military correction. A sharp pulse skipped across my skin under his fingers. His hand paused for the briefest instant, then he finished adjusting my stance and stepped away into the center aisle.
"Keep fighting," he ordered, turning his back on us.
I reset my stance, keeping my weight pressed firmly on the balls of my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced up toward the high observation gallery overlooking the floor.
Standing behind the iron railing was a massive, square-jawed legacy cadet with cropped dark hair, holding a leather slate and writing in silence.
"That's Garrick," Rhea muttered as we reset between bouts. Her voice was low, barely a breath. "Lyra's shadow."
Garrick wasn't watching the general fight. His dark eyes were fixed straight on me.
I forced my focus back to the dirt ring, lifting my guard just as Rhea lunged again.
An hour later, the iron horn sounded, signaling the end of the morning drill.
My ribs ached, my throat burned from the dust, and my clothes were stained gray from multiple falls onto the stone floor. I had lost three of four sparring bouts. I wasn't an invincible fighter, and Ironfang was making sure I knew it.
Cadets began filing out toward the washing troughs in quiet, exhausted groups, their boots heavy against the flagstones.
I unwrapped the blood-stained cloth from my hand, heading toward the heavy exit doors.
"Vance."
The single word cut through the noise of the clearing hall.
I froze, turning my head.
Jaxen was walking past the iron weapon racks near the main doors, heading toward his office block. He didn't stop. He didn't look at me, keeping his pale eyes fixed straight ahead on the corridor.
As he passed within two feet of where I stood, his quiet, flat voice carried barely loud enough for my ears alone.
"Tomorrow, don't lean on your right foot."
He kept walking, his heavy boots echoing down the hallway as the dark wooden doors clicked shut behind him.
The hall had almost emptied by the time I looked down.
My weight was still resting on my right foot.
I shifted it without thinking.
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