At least my fingers aren’t tingling from touching him anymore. If anything, they itch to strangle him. And if he weren’t so crucial, I’d do just that. Too bad he has to be a Weston.
I stomp through my house, releasing bits of my built-up frustration with each pound of my boots. This is what my father died for? What I’m supposed to surrender my life for? This bratty, ungrateful boy I can hear trudging through the sand, taking his sweet time to frustrate me?
I’m done playing nice.
I move to the room’s only corner and sweep the palm leaves away from the wall, unearthing the handle of my blade. Calm settles over me as I reach for the hilt, each finger finding its perfect place in the grip. The sword wasn’t made for me, but I’ve practiced with it so much the metal has conformed to every curve of my palm—tangible proof of my mastery.
The smallest flick of my wrist sweeps the blade from the slit I carved in the ground, and with a single motion, I swish and spin, stopping my rotation with the pointed tip of the weapon aimed directly between Vane’s eyes.
“What the crap?” he shouts, backing up.
I smile at his sudden lack of bravado. Windslicers make quite an impression.
Thousands of razor-sharp, unbreakable needles line a steel vein in the center—a deadly feather that can slice through flesh as easily as it can shred the strongest gust or flurry. I slash a couple of times, letting the tearing air echo off the walls like a breathy scream.
Vane backs farther away, stumbling over his feet.
“Are you ready to start taking this seriously?” I ask, thrusting the point closer, practically grazing the skin of his nose.
“I already said I was—put that thing down before someone gets hurt.”
“Lots of people are going to get hurt if you don’t start listening to me. The Stormers have blades just like these. Do you think they’ll hesitate to use them? Can you imagine the level of damage they can inflict?”
I tilt the blade to let the orangey sunlight trace across the needles’ points. Vane’s wide eyes follow the glinting trail, and I can almost see his mind picturing how it’d feel to be wounded with such a weapon.
I don’t have to imagine. My forearm caught the tail end of a blow during my training, and I can still remember the agony as my skin was pierced, shredded, and smashed at the same time. The only pain worse is joining the wind.
“And weapons are nothing compared to the power of three,” I add, waiting for Vane to meet my gaze. He looks ashen. “Raiden requires his Stormers to master the languages of the three most powerful winds, making them virtually unstoppable. They’ll show no mercy. Think about what happened to your parents. To my father.”
He struggles to swallow, and his eyes stay glued to the sword I keep trained between his eyes. “So why don’t we run, then? Why stay here and face them?”
“Stormers are expert trackers.”
“Yeah, well, I can be an expert hider. I can stay so far off the grid they’ll think I vanished for good.”
“It doesn’t work that way. And even if you could get away, what about your family? Could you convince them to abandon everything and flee with you? What about your friends? What about the innocent people living here? Would you let them die for you? Could you live with that?”
He doesn’t have an answer.
“Believe me, Vane. If there were any other option, I would take it. This is it. You and me against them. And it isn’t a game. No amount of snarky jokes will spare you in a wind battle. I can teach you to defend yourself, but only if you let me. Otherwise, you might as well hand yourself over to Raiden now. See if he appreciates your sense of humor more than I do.”
His eyes dart between my face and the blade.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
I have no idea what he’s thinking, but he looks as scared as he should be.
I breathe a sigh of relief when he finally asks the right question.
“So where do we start?”
I lower the windslicer. “Take a seat.”
He drops to the dusty ground, scooting to the far edge of the floor, against one of the walls. Keeping a safe distance from me.
Good.
I sink to my knees in front of him, placing the windslicer between us. “Rule number one—the most important rule for our training sessions: Never speak to the wind in anything other than a whisper—is that clear?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You don’t have to understand. You just have to agree. Until the Stormers find us, you cannot do anything other than whisper to the wind. We don’t need the breezes telling them more than they already know.”
I wait for him to agree.
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”
I roll my eyes. He has to be difficult. “Hold out your right hand, palm facing me, and spread your fingers like mine.” I stretch my fingers wide, curling the tips like I’m gripping an invisible sphere. “Memorize that position. It’s the easiest way to feel for the nearby drafts.”
He copies my position. “Okay. Am I supposed to be feeling something?”