Elora Van Eck | Kaz Brekker

THIRTEEN | LONE FIGHTER

***

d u n y a s h a

HEAVING, she managed wary steps. Her hands, revealing an agony-induced tremor, were clutching the backrest of a wooden chair so very firmly that it caused her knuckles to lighten white.

"Don't overstrain yourself," warned a deep voice, but Dunya simply ignored it. She knew those words to be advice underlined with caution, yet they ricocheted off her as water droplets did on an oily surface.

She would not tolerate her body's necessity for rest, whether she would be able to reclaim the reign of her blades anon being solely up to her ambition. The girl had been manacled to her bed long enough, and her muscles now seared with limp, a flame that could lone be relieved by movement.

Despite cautioning words the redheaded irresponsibly neglected the biting soreness, her wobbling legs, and the droplets of sweat staining her neck and forehead. Dunya doddered about the room, demurring any assistance.

Even the humanness of a vigorous combatant would reach a point of outright debilitation – a fact she preferred to ignore.

Instead, her focal point was the facing wall. A deep breath officiated as a bulldozer, shoving all ounces of ache into the depths of disinterest. Anew, she released her solid grip and progressed forth, one motivator pushing her forward.

Elora.

That reasoning, however, did little to spare her from the stabbing agony extending in her peritoneum alike a balloon about to blow.

Twisted in pain, the girl sagged with a whimper. Before her bones could wrack against the flooring, however, two firm hands secured around her waist, steadying her buckling knees. "I told you so."

"Fuck off," Dunya hissed, her jaws clenching as she attempted to wrestle free. But Marcus didn't waver. One of her trembling hands went to pluck his much larger one off her clothing. "I am serious, Marcus. Get lost!"

„Dunya— "

"I did not call for your help! I am no feeble infant so stop treating me like one. Now, leave me before I break your darn fins." Dunyasha's tone roared, yet it sounded sullied with desperation. For, at no time had she been as reliant on aid as presently.

The young girl had ripened under the load of responsibility planted on her tender shoulders. If she had not managed to handle it, the heft would have mashed her faultless soul and wispy bones mercilessly. But ambition was her one innate gift and quit was no term available in her vocabulary. She had not been blessed with a lengthy childhood, instead was forced to adult prematurely. As unattractive as her life may have seemed, it had once been a polluted canvas, and single-handedly she had remodeled it to now be days of satisfying value.

A ludicrous wound would not bereave her of all pride. In no life would she beseech for aid. Dunyasha Lazareva would never allow herself to befall indebted.

"Get out of here!" bellowed the recovering girl once more.

Marcus detached his palms from Dunya's waist. Although, regardless of the blaring acrimony yodeling in his ears, he did not leave the room. His eyes monitored her until she had lone victoriously hobbled towards her bed.

"Dunyasha," Marcus pronounced his friend's name with care. But an unambiguous jerk of her fingers muted him promptly. The boy analyzed her for an elongate moment, sponging up the arduous inhaling. Her anguished breaths. He then fell a stride backward, and another until he forced himself to avert his view off Dunya's frail form.

Dunya desisted to meet Marcus's eyes, her own brimming with tears of shame. Vertebrae facing the boy, she did not grant him even a hasty glimpse of her emerging vulnerability. She harkened the footsteps until they abruptly fell soundless.