Chapters (63)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Pronunciation Guide
- Prologue
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Part Two
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Part Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Part Four
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Epilogue
- Excerpt from The Sun and Its Shade
- The Night and Its Moon Playlist
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Cover
The kindest reevers kept their comments to themselves. Others made no attempt to conceal their irritated groans, eye rolls, or overall displeasure as they continued to watch her flounder at every task. At least with running, she spent the majority of her time by herself. Sparring came with the shame of an audience.
She failed to parry time and time again. Amaris received blow after blow to the ribs, to the face, to the legs. She limped to bed each evening covered in purple bruises from neck to navel, refusing to whimper in front of the men, having never landed a single hit to Ash. Every night she’d test her bones for breaks in the bath and seemed to be single-handedly depleting the reev’s supply of healing tonics in her desperation to stay on top of her injuries.
Ash was always kind but seemed relentlessly disappointed that his partner didn’t put up more of a fight. Not only did it dampen his morale to thoroughly pummel his opponent each day, but it also meant he had to spend extra hours in the ring with Malik just to get in proper competition. Ash and Malik were a far better sparring match. Had she not arrived, they would have doubtlessly remained paired. She hated herself for holding Ash back in his training.
Malik had his own sparring partner of equal skill, but he didn’t seem bothered by the additional opportunities for swordplay, shooting, and hand-to-hand combat. When he finished his own regime, he’d hang back and wait until Ash was ready to start their melee all over again. Fortunately, he was an eminently good-natured young man, whose kind smiles and dismissive shrugs had disarmed the apologies Amaris offered each time he had to train for extra hours.
“Move your feet, Ayla!” Ash shouted as he stood over her, cursing her in the southern dialect, insulting her as an oak tree. He’d knocked her to her back once again, just as he always did in swordplay. The shortened variation of her name—Ayla being the word for oak—had become his nickname for her. It was less of a mouthful than Amaris, and a more accurate representation of how her clumsy feet seemed to be rooted to the earth—her moves so slow and timbering that she might as well have been carved from wood. She didn’t mind the nickname. Frankly, she deserved far worse.
Much to the chagrin of her and everyone around her, she did not seem to be improving.
As temperatures dropped with approaching winter, it became infinitely harder for Amaris to train. Her hands were red and chapped with the season. The extra weight of the warmer leathers and elbow-length fur cloak seemed to hinder her movements all the more. Was it possible that she was getting progressively worse? Between her beaten-down spirit, broken body, and the All Mother’s forsaken weather on the mountain, it seemed she grew less impressive with every day that passed. Perhaps she truly was nothing more than an oak tree in a girl’s body.