away from being discovered, but Tristan’s very proximity was enough to make her lungs tighten and her body shake.
Veronyka, you fool.
Focusing on the bow in her hands, she relaxed and did as he ordered. Deep breath in, slow breath out. On the next breath in, she tightened her grip and drew back the string, feeling her muscles bunch and expand and her posture straighten.
“There it is,” he said softly, his breath tickling the back of her neck.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was so close, Veronyka could see the barest shadow of stubble along his jawline and the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Once. Twice.
His hand lingered for a moment longer. Then it dropped, and she released the string, her body’s tension collapsing in on itself in a grateful moment of release.
Tristan cleared his throat and reached for the quiver. He was brusque when he took the bow again, avoiding her eye as he showed her how to hold the arrow, curling his fingers to pull it taut against the string and angling the shaft against the bow, with a finger below to guide it.
He was an excellent teacher, patient and thorough, and when it was Veronyka’s turn, she did her best to follow his instructions. Her form seemed accurate enough, but when it came time to actually shoot the weapon, the arrow flopped to the ground scant feet in front of her.
Tristan covered his mouth in a gesture that she knew was hiding laughter, and he collected the stray arrow before waving for her to try again. She got the hang of it eventually, firing weak shots in the general direction of the target. Before long the muscles in her shoulders, arms, and back began to ache, and her fingertips were rubbed raw.
“There are gloves and armguards to make you more comfortable,” Tristan offered, seeing her shake out her aching fingers after another unimpressive shot, “but it’s better to toughen the skin and develop calluses.”
“It’s fine,” Veronyka said in frustration. She’d managed to embed only a single arrow, on the outermost edge of the target, but nothing more.
“You have other strengths, you know,” Tristan said quietly.
Veronyka knew she sucked at this, but his words confirmed it. How was she going to be a mounted warrior when she could barely draw a bow? If Avalkyra Ashfire could be the best markswoman in the summer solstice games at age eleven, beating out hundreds of older, more experienced archers, Veronyka could learn too. She had to.
“If you want to be a Rider, you have to be an archer,” she gritted out. She’d just have to practice more, find ways to shoot late at night or early in the morning. . . .
“Yes, archery is important,” Tristan conceded, coming to stand in front of her, arms crossed. “But every Rider has their talents. Anders is an amazing flyer, fast and unpredictable. Fallon has incredible balance—he can ride standing, sitting, or even on his phoenix’s tail. Ronyn is by far the strongest of any of us; he can throw a spear almost as far as I can shoot an arrow.”
As Tristan continued to list off each Rider’s remarkable skills, Veronyka felt smaller and smaller. How could she think she belonged among them, when she had no such astounding abilities?
It seemed Tristan could read her mind. “But your strength, Nyk, is your magic.”
Veronyka gave him a disbelieving look. “We all have magic,” she said, unable to keep the embarrassing sulkiness out of her voice. Of course, Veronyka did have a magical skill that most of them did not—her shadow magic—but it had no bearing on how she’d fare as a Rider. In most cases it was a terrible inconvenience and a liability.
“Not like yours,” Tristan said forcefully.
A pleased smile spread across Veronyka’s face, despite her having a hard time actually believing his words. Val’s praise had always been scant, and usually bracketed on both sides with snide jabs and insults. Her maiora was kind and patient, but their time together had been so limited. Val had been the one to teach her the most about magic.
Veronyka’s first recollection of having magic involved Val. She and her grandmother had been inside their home when a girl kicked in the front door. It was strange, and Veronyka must have been very young, because in her memory, the girl had been a wild and terrifying stranger. It had been Val, of course, her dark eyes peeking through the strands of her matted, so-dirty-it-looked-brown hair.