Amaris’s mouth opened as if to speak, but once again, words failed her. The fae seemed level-headed enough not to judge her over the particularly overwhelming day, but he didn’t let her off the hook entirely. Samael turned to leave. Glancing over his shoulder, he said, “Oh, and if I catch you using your persuasion again while in the reev, it will be your last night in this fortress. Is that understood?”

She almost choked, appalled with herself for the manipulation she’d wielded amidst the men, but nodded. Samael wandered off, disappearing into the keep. Amaris had spent so long locked up in her rooms that she had no interest in hurrying back to her chambers. She continued along the path he’d led, surrounded by the circular shape of their granite training arena. It had no roof and was fully exposed to the autumnal weather that rushed in from overhead. The air was cold both from the lateness of the season and from their elevation. The wind chafed her face and hands. The chill didn’t bother her nearly as much as the idea of returning to her bedroom. Amaris picked her footing carefully down the stairs, sinking into the lower levels of the training ring.

The fresh air was a relief from the jarring meeting. She needed the crisp, bracing wind to shake her mind free of the cobwebs that had gathered, connecting her mind to her tongue as she’d remained speechless throughout the bewildering events of the day. Even if she hadn’t just had a life-changing experience, the clean mountain air was a nice break from the days spent in her room, and she was not eager to return.

This was where she would train.

The arena was littered with objects meant for instruction, education, and honing one’s craft. Wooden beams ran along one side. Spheres and disks of stone and iron intended for weight training were scattered on the opposite side near a rack of swords. Some blades were made of true steel, others composed of wood. A quiver of arrows hung from the rows of weapons. Hole-punched targets on the far end of the arena were evidence of the archery she was sure took place every day. She ran a cold, chilled finger along the blade of a sword on its stand and was surprised to see it draw blood. She’d expected practice weapons to be dulled.

“Don’t you reckon you have enough scars?”

Amaris whirled and found the coppery boy of about sixteen, just barely older than herself, leaning against the opening to a dug-out pit in the arena. She wiped the droplet of blood on her pants. She blinked at the young man and shrugged, unsure of what to say. She recognized him from the meeting as the faeling Samael had mentioned.

He approached with a crooked smile, extending a hand. “I’m Ash.”