Verath the Red (Dragonwall Series #3)

Chapter 1 - Portrait of an Unscarred King

Sparring with Koldis was entirely different. Perhaps more challenging. Unlike Jovari, Koldis was a dirty fighter who liked to use his fists and feet when the opportunity allowed. For that alone, he often trained her hand to hand, rather than with weapons, frequently reminding her that, "No one will show you mercy, Lady Claire, so you had better learn what it means to fight without restraint." Koldis wanted her to understand the way people liked to fight. There were no rules when it came to staying alive, a lesson she'd learned the hard way.

It was Koldis who taught her how to perform a successful palm punch to an opponent's jaw. She nearly broke his at one point—or so she liked to think—injuring herself in the process. But she'd quickly healed. Her magic made her more than human, allowing her to take a harder beating than most. She wasn't as frail as she once was. And thank the gods for that, or she'd have been minced meat already. And no matter how bad the bruises were, each day she healed faster, complements of the strange cocktail flowing through her veins.

The Magoi were not entirely human, and their immortality depended on power. Kane was a perfect example of this. It was said that an Asarlaí Sorcerer could live for thousands of years, fueled by dark magic. Something in the way their evil intent twisted whatever magic they possessed. It allowed them to live much longer than any mage. And while the two were not so different, it was ultimately their decisions that formed the line.

She had already learned that strength and power grew with magical ability, and magical ability grew with knowledge, practice, and skill. So the more powerful she became, the stronger she would be physically. The same was potentially true of her Sprite blood, if she did indeed possess any. And surely she did, evidenced by the luminescent Sprite Mark now tattooed on her skin. But she couldn't say with certainty—

"Watch where you step!" Jovari shouted. He caught her foot with his.

She screeched, making jarring contact with the hard ground. Pain erupted everywhere. With a swift movement, she lifted her sword arm in time to meet Jovari's downward blow.

He nodded and lowered his weapon. "Good. But if you do not watch your step, you leave yourself vulnerable. Remember, feet, feet, feet!" He tapped her right foot with the end of his practice sword. "Think about your feet first before you move the rest of you."

"Right." She grabbed his extended hand and stood.

A flash of movement caught her attention. Desaree. Her handmaiden sat on the grassy slope watching as she usually did. Desaree was a godsend. If it hadn't been for her, she wouldn't have adjusted to Dragonwall's way of life as smoothly.

"Who's that?" she asked, squinting at the unfamiliar man approaching Des. Her handmaiden stood to greet him. They shared a few hurried words as he removed something from his satchel. Desaree took it, dropped a few coins into his hand, and he rushed away.

"Looks like you got a letter from the relay." Jovari answered.

"A letter?" She turned to face him. "What's the relay?"

"Gods, girl. Haven't you been here long enough to know? How do you think letters get delivered over long distances? Humans have to communicate one way or another. They certainly aren't as lucky as you and I."

He was referring to her telepathic ability—the same ability all the Drengr possessed. Except hers far surpassed any of their capabilities. While the Drengr could communicate in the form of thoughts to one another—an ability that heavily depended on distance—she could hear all of them unwarranted, and speak with all of them too, without even trying. It was an unexplainable conundrum.

"How do you know the letter is for me and not Desaree?" She asked.

Jovari snorted. "Because I think we both know who it's from."