“You should go shower.”
“Are you kidding? I’m going to be two steps behind you the whole time. You want to train? Then you’re going to train properly.” He pokes me in the small of my back, making me stumble forward. “Come on.”
The prince is incessant, jogging backward until I match his pace. We pass the track, the outdoor obstacle course, a wide field of close-cut grass, not to mention several circles of dirt for sparring and a target range more than a quarter mile long. Some newbloods run the obstacle course and the track, while a few practice alone in the field. I don’t recognize them, but the abilities I see are familiar enough. A newblood akin to a nymph forms columns of clear water before letting them drop to the grass, creating spreading puddles of mud. A teleporter navigates the course with ease. She appears and disappears all over the equipment, laughing at others having a more difficult time. Every time she jumps, my stomach twists, remembering Shade.
The sparring circles unsettle me most of all. I haven’t fought someone for training, for sport, since Evangeline so many months ago. It was not an experience I care to repeat. But I’ll certainly have to.
Cal’s voice keeps me level, drawing my focus back to the task at hand. “I’ll get you on your weights routine starting tomorrow, but today we can jump into target and theory.”
Target I understand. “Theory?”
We stop at the edge of the long range, staring at the mist burning off in the distance.
“You came into Training about a decade late for that. But before our abilities are in fighting form, we spend a lot of time studying our advantages and disadvantages, how to use them.”
“Like nymphs beating burners, water over fire.”
“Sort of. That’s an easy one. But what if you’re the burner?” I just shake my head, and he grins. “See, tricky. Takes a lot of memorization and comprehension. Testing. But you’re going to do this on the fly.”
I forgot how suited to this Cal is. He is a fish in water, at ease, grinning. Eager. This is what he’s good at, what he understands, where he excels. It’s a lifeline in a world that never seems to make any sense.
“Is it too late to say I don’t want to train anymore?”
Cal just laughs, tipping his head back. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck. “You’re stuck with me, Barrow. Now, hit the first target.” He stretches out a hand, indicating a square granite block ten yards away, painted like a bull’s-eye. “One bolt. Dead center.”
Smirking, I do as asked. I can’t miss at this range. A single purple-white bolt streaks through the air and hits home. With a resounding crack, the lightning leaves a black mark in the center of the bull’s-eye.
Before I have time to feel proud, Cal bodily shoves me aside. Off guard, I stumble, almost falling into the dirt. “Hey!”
He just steps away and points. “Next target. Twenty yards.”
“Fine,” I huff, turning my eyes on the second block. I raise my arm again, ready to aim—and Cal shoves me again. This time my feet react more quickly, but not enough, and my bolt goes wild, crackling into the dirt.
“This feels very unprofessional.”
“I used to do this with someone firing blanks next to my head. Would you prefer that?” he asks. I shake my head quickly. “Then hit—the—target.”
Normally, I’d be annoyed, but his smile spreads, making me blush. It’s training, I think. Get a hold of yourself.
This time, when he goes to push me, I sidestep and fire, clipping the granite marker. Another dodge, another shot. Cal starts to change up his tactic, going for my legs or even burning a fireball across my vision. The first time he does that, I hit the ground so fast I end up spitting dirt. “Hit the target” becomes his anthem, followed by a yard marker anywhere between fifty and ten. He shouts the targets at random, all while forcing me to dance on my toes. It’s harder than running, much harder, and the sun turns brutal as the day wears on.
“The target is a swift. What do you do?” he asks.
I grit my teeth, panting. “Spread the bolt. Catch him as he dodges—”
“Don’t tell me, do it.”
With a grunt, I swing my arm in a chopping, horizontal motion, sending a spray of voltage in the target’s direction. The sparks are weaker, less concentrated, but enough to slow a swift down. Next to me, Cal just nods his head, the only indication that I did something right. It feels good anyway.
“Thirty yards. Banshee.”
Clapping my hands to my ears, I squint at the target, willing lightning without use of my fingers. A bolt vaults from my body, arcing like a rainbow. It misses, but I splash the electricity, making the sparks burst in different directions.
“Five yards. Silence.”
The thought of an Arven floods me with panic. I try to focus. My hand strays for a gun that isn’t there, and I pretend to shoot the target. “Bang.”
Cal snorts a bit. “That doesn’t count, but okay. Five yards, magnetron.”
That one I know intimately. With all the force I can muster, I rocket a blast of lightning at the target. It cracks in two, sliding apart at dead center.
“Theory?” a soft voice says behind us.
I was so focused on the range that I didn’t notice Julian standing by to watch, with Kilorn at his side. My old teacher offers a tight smile, his hands folded behind his back in his usual way. I’ve never seen him so casually dressed, with a light cotton shirt and shorts revealing thin chicken legs. Cal should get him on a weights routine too.
“Theory,” Cal confirms. “After a fashion.” He waves me down, giving me a brief respite. Immediately I sit in the dirt, stretching out my legs. Despite the constant dodging, it’s the lightning that makes me tired. Without the adrenaline of battle or the threat of death hanging over my head, my stamina is decidedly lessened. Not to mention the fact that I’m about six months out of practice. With even motions, Kilorn stoops and puts a frosty water bottle down at my side.