“Do I have to be careful with it? Can I cut myself?”
Dad responds by forming his own glory sword and swinging it at Christian, so fast that he doesn’t even have time to move, let alone duck out of the way, before the sword cuts through him. I bite back a scream, sure I’m about to see my best friend cut in half, but the blade passes through like a sunbeam cutting through clouds. Christian stands there totally shocked, his own glory sword abruptly gone from his hand, then looks down at his stomach. A long section of his T-shirt flutters to the ground, cleanly severed. But there’s not a scratch on his body.
“Holy …” Christian lets out a breath. “You could warn a guy before you attack him like that. I liked that shirt.”
“If you were a Triplare,” Dad says matter-of-factly, “you’d be dead.”
I frown. “He is a Triplare.”
“One of theirs, I mean,” Dad clarifies. “Those with the dark wings.”
“So we can’t hurt each other?” I ask. “I mean, if we spar with glory swords, they’ll pass through like that?”
“As long as you are aligned with the light, glory will not harm you,” Dad answers. “It is part of you, after all.”
Christian’s chewing on his bottom lip, which is not like him. “My wings aren’t all white,” he confesses, meeting Dad’s eyes. “They have black specks. What does that mean?”
“It happens when a child is born from a white-winged mother and one of the Sorrowful Ones,” Dad says thoughtfully. “It’s a mark the Black Wings leave to identify their Triplare children.”
“But our wings are a reflection of our souls, right?” I ask, confused. “You’re saying that Christian’s father marked his soul?”
Dad doesn’t answer, but his grim look says it all.
Christian looks like he’s going to be sick to his stomach.
Time for some stress relief, I think.
I move my arm slowly back and forth, watch the way the light lingers in the air, trailing my movement. It’s almost dark now, the sky a deep navy, and the sword against it reminds me of sparklers on the Fourth of July. On an impulse I write my name with it. C. L. A. R. A.
“Come on,” I say to Christian. “You try.”
He recovers himself and focuses until a bright blade appears in his hand, then starts writing his own letters in the air. We start to goof around, turning circles, making patterns, then taking swipes at each other’s exposed arms and legs. Just as Dad said, the blades pass right through. The warmth and power of the glory makes me a bit giddy, and I keep laughing as I maneuver the sword. For a minute I forget about the visions. There’s nothing that can touch me, with this. Nothing to fear.
“I’m glad you understand now,” Dad says, and there’s relief in his voice. “Because this is our last session.”
Christian and I both drop our arms and look at him, startled. “The last session?” I repeat.
“Of your training,” he says.
“Oh.” I lift the sword again. My heart is suddenly heavy, and the sword dims in my hand, flickers. “Will we be—will I be seeing you around?”