trousers which pull together at the ankles make it easy to move about in, whilst still looking feminine. The top part wraps together like the dresses I’m used to wearing during the day and hangs down, and along with the flowing trousers, it gives the impression I’m wearing a dress, while still giving me the freedom of movement I need.
Now that my breathing has settled down and my lungs don’t feel like they’re going to rip themselves apart, I turn to look at the elf who belongs to the shadows. A smirk greets me, riling me up once again. What is it about this guy that just makes me mad all the time? I feel drawn to him for some reason—not the way I am with Vaeril, Tor, and Grayson—but there’s something about him that speaks to a part of me. Unfortunately, he also seems to bring out my anger. I’m fairly sure he hates me, but sometimes I see him looking at me with such a heart-breaking sadness that I wonder if I’ve got him wrong.
“Better, princess?”
Nope. I’ve not got him wrong. He’s a bastard who thrives off the pain of others, I think bitterly as I glare up at him. He started calling me ‘princess’ this morning, but I know it’s not in a positive way, as he sneers the words at me.
Thanks to the sleeveless outfit I’m wearing, my marks are all on display and stand out against my pale, alabaster skin. Lifting my wrist, I turn it around to expose the marks. “Slave, remember?” His eyes lock onto the brands, his expression turning fierce. Suddenly feeling awkward, I quickly drop my arm and press it to my side so it’s hidden from view. Showing off my marks is not something I feel comfortable with. In fact, back in Arhaven, I had to hide them. If anyone saw them, it would’ve been a death sentence, so now it feels uncomfortable when they’re not covered.
Eldrin watches my movements with a frown, and although the marks are now hidden, he stares at my arms. “I remember.” He pulls his gaze up, his expression somber as he meets my eyes, and for a moment, I think he’s going to try to comfort me or say something kind. “I had hoped that it would make you stronger. I have no idea how you survived for twelve years when you can’t even run ten laps.”
Shaking my head as he returns back to his surly self, I take a deep, calming breath, and I have to remind myself that having an argument with him out here in the open would be a bad idea. “Running wasn’t exactly something they encouraged,” I reply with an eye roll, pretending that his comments don’t bother me when, in fact, they do.
How dare he say I’m not strong. I’ve survived torture, punishments, brandings, near starvation, and backbreaking labour. Memories flash through my mind, trying to take over my calm and invade my thoughts. One of the only ways to survive as a slave in Arhaven was to push the memories of what happened to you deep, deep down, and to not think about it. But something about Eldrin brings them back. I don’t want to relive them, and certainly not in front of him, so I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart.
When I open my eyes, they’re steely as I glare at the elf. “Besides, being able to run has nothing to do with strength,” I point out. Strength doesn’t always have to be physical. Mental strength gets you through dire situations. I get the feeling, however, that Eldrin wouldn’t appreciate that sort of strength, he needs a physical representation. “I carried Vaeril through the forest to get us here.”
He winces at the reminder of his friend being in such a poor condition, but my words seem to make him reconsider his judgement. Eyes narrowing, he nods his head at whatever conclusion he’s come to. “Okay, princess, show me how strong you are.” Opening his arms theatrically, he bobs into a mocking bow and gestures for me to head over to the weights that are stacked up against the far wall.
The training space is a walled off section of grass behind the stables. A running track has been worn into the grass, and a sparring ring lies in the center. The back wall is full of equipment that I might have thought was torture gear if he hadn’t told me. Although, I’m sure