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.
“Thought you might need this,” he says with a wink.
I grin up at him. “Thanks,” I manage, before gulping down a few cold mouthfuls. “What are you doing down here, Julian?”
“Just on my way to the archives. Then I decided to see what all the fuss was about.” He gestures over his shoulder. I jolt at the sight of a dozen or so assembled on the edge of the range, all of them staring at us. At me. “Seems you have a bit of an audience.”
I grit my teeth. Great.
Cal shifts, just a bit, to hide me from view. “Sorry. Didn’t want to break your concentration.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, forcing myself to stand. My limbs groan in protest.
“Well, I’ll see you both later,” Julian says, looking between me and Cal.
I answer quickly. “We can go with you—”
But he cuts me off with a knowing smirk, gesturing toward the crowd of bystanders. “Oh, I think you have introductions to make. Kilorn, would you mind?”
“Not at all,” Kilorn replies. I want to smack the grin right off his face, and he knows it. “After you, Mare.”
“Fine,” I force through a clenched jaw.
Fighting my natural instinct to slink away from attention, I take a few steps toward the newbloods. A few more. A few more. Until I reach them, Cal and Kilorn alongside. In the Notch, I didn’t want friends. Friends are harder to say good-bye to. That hasn’t changed, but I see what Kilorn and Julian are doing. I can’t close myself off from others anymore. I try to force a winning smile at the people around me.
“Hi. I’m Mare.” It sounds stupid and I feel stupid.
One of the newbloods, the teleporter, bobs her head. She has a forest-green Montfort uniform, long limbs, and closely cropped brown hair. “Yeah, we know. I’m Arezzo,” she says, sticking out a hand. “I jumped you and Calore out of Archeon.”
No wonder I didn’t recognize her. The minutes after my escape are still a blur of fear, adrenaline, and overpowering relief. “Right, of course. Thank you for that.” I blink, trying to remember her.
The others are just as friendly and open, as pleased to meet another newblood as I am. Everyone in this group is Montfort-born or Montfort-allied, in green uniforms with white triangles on the breast and insignia on each bicep. Some are easy to decipher—two wavy lines for the nymph-like newblood, three arrows for the swift. No one has badges or medals, though. There’s no telling who might be an officer. But all are military-trained, if not military-raised. They use last names and have firm handshakes, each one a born or made soldier. Most know Cal on sight and nod at him in a very official manner. Kilorn they greet like an old friend.