A Court of Whispers and Song

Chapter 5

Training should have started fifteen minutes ago—and Gwyn was still not here. She wasn't coming. Not that Azriel expected to find her in the ring this after yesterday, but he hoped she'd show. The idea of her sitting alone in her dorm made the acid turn in his gut. He tilted his face to the morning sun, his eyes gritty with bags of sand beneath. There was no sleeping last night, not when his thoughts focused on the female huddled on the cobblestone.

Azriel's rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pain, the stale taste of liquor coating his mouth. He wished he'd taken that headache powder that Elain...

"Is Gwyn coming?" Roslin asked as the group continued stretching and warming their muscles on the sand of the training circle.

Emerie caught Azriel's gaze from the ground.

He loosed a long sigh, rolling his neck. "We can't wait any longer. Let's begin. Pair up and work on punch combos. Emerie, you're with me," he instructed, sliding a pair of broken-in pads on his scarred hands.

Emerie stood and shook out her arms, bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet. Fixing her stance in front of him, she checked the wrappings on her hands, flexing her fingers. Az lifted the pads, setting his feet into the sand. The Illyrian female's punches were no joke, almost equal to any male of their species. And Em was the prime example of why the bastards wanted to keep the females in line. In a few more sessions, she could hand their asses to any one of them, including that prick Devlon. Those archaic winged fuckers didn't know what hit him when the females—his and Cassian's trained females—had won the Blood Rite.

"That's good, Emerie. Make sure you tuck the left wing in a little...does that feel a little better? More stable? Good. All right. Begin."

One, two. Block. One, two. Block. One, two.

Emerie continued with the pattern, her ebony brows lowered in concentration. The grunts, the thudding of fists against leather, and the seagull caws overhead filled the rooftop. There was nothing quite like the fresh air, out in the daylight, honing your body into a weapon. A relaxing symphony for a warrior.

Relaxing? If only. The muscle in his left cheek ticked and his wings twitched.

Ask her, Shadowsinger. How is she?

How is she? The question weighed heavily on his mind. The same question he tried drowning out with whiskey, so he was too drunk to make it to the library last night. Azriel had to know the answer, even if it made him sick.

"What happened when Gwyn came home last night?" he sought, his tone steady, though his body thrummed with apprehension.

Emerie glanced up as her fist pounded into the left pad. "Gwyn went downstairs without saying a word and didn't come back."

Azriel nodded, keeping his face impassive, and refocused on correcting thumb placement. No reason to break a digit because of laziness. He knew that too well. And that's why the knuckles were so damn crooked.

Not the only reason. Yeah, Azriel was not taking that trip down memory lane.

"All right," he addressed the group. "Let's switch up the combo to a jab, crossover—"

The heavy door to the rooftop flew open with a bang, rebounding off the exterior wall. Birds scattered. Fists lowered. Silence, as if all of Velaris held its breath.

The silhouette made his heart slam against his ribs, and his shadows appear. Watching and waiting.

Gwyn stalked across the roof, straight into the fighting ring. Outfitted in her training leathers, ginger hair plaited into a tight braid, her hands settled on the curve of her hips as she took in the scene. The female before them was ready for battle. A warrior goddess. A true Valkyrie.