A blade cut toward his neck and Rafe ducked, tucking his wings close as he spun on his knees before swiping his sword at Helen's feet. She jumped, narrowly missing the attack, then slammed her weapon down. Rafe crossed his twin blades above his head to catch the blow before it sliced his scalp in two. Using his extra weight to his advantage, he pushed hard and she stumbled back. It didn't take her long to find her footing—there was a reason she was the master of the guards. Rafe hardly had time to stand before she came barreling back, flapping her wings to lift snow and dust into his eyes as she went for his torso. Rafe deflected the attack with one sword, then spun, anticipating her path. When she turned, his other blade was at her throat.
"Yield."
"Well done, Rafe." Helen grinned, eyes wild from the fight, as alive as he ever saw them. "But can you best me with only one blade?"
He glanced at the twin swords in his hands—his weapons of choice—then dropped one into the snow by his feet. The guards circled around them murmured, whispering to each other, likely placing bets. It was one of those rare moments when he felt as though he belonged—on the practice field, surrounded by soldiers, muscles firing, skin warm, heart thumping loud enough to drown out the doubts. Normally, he practiced by himself or sometimes alone with Helen, one-on-one. The other guards didn't care to watch, as though just looking at him, just acknowledging him, would embroil them in whatever devious plans they assumed he spun.
A tickle lifted the hairs at the back of his neck.
Again, he couldn’t help but wonder why. Why were they acting differently? Why were they looking at him as though they knew something he didn't? Why were they sizing him up and assessing his skill? Why were there calculations in their eyes? Most of all, why did he see the smallest glint of hope there too?
"Ready?" Helen called, lifting her blade.
He nodded. "Ready."
She acted swiftly, charging across the space with her weapon held high. Rafe caught the edge of her blade easily—too easily. He realized a moment too late the attack was feigned as she spun under the weapon to elbow him in the gut hard enough he stumbled back. Helen sliced in a wide arc. He caught the sword on his forearm, using the metal sewn into his jacket as a shield, and pumped his wings, lifting into the sky. With his strength, he could land harder blows from the air than she, without the ground to anchor her movements. When their blades met, she strained to match his force, beating her wings rapidly to keep from falling back. Rafe stored that bit of information as he met her swing for swing, waiting for an opening. Fights were the only times when he knew how to be patient—how to wait for that perfect moment to strike.
Now!
He was a few feet above Helen with his sword lifted overhead, gripped tightly with both hands. As she rose to meet him, he swung down and closed his wings in the same moment, dropping toward the ground. Helen caught the strike and flapped her wings, but from this angle, she had no way to stop their fall. Rafe pressed harder, his strength and weight a guide. Just before her feet touched the ground, he relented, pumping his wings to throw her off balance. Then he hooked his blade behind hers and yanked as he dropped the last two feet, sending her sword flying across the practice field.
"Yield."
She was saved as a raven coughed from the edge of the grounds. "I have a message from the queen."
"Perfect timing." Helen grinned. "Well fought, Rafe."
"I think you mean well won."
"Maybe. Maybe not." She shrugged and retrieved her weapon from the frozen ground. "I guess we'll never know. Now"—she turned toward the messenger, features focused—"what did the queen say?"
The two of them walked off together, faces huddled close. Rafe took a moment to eye the ravens still standing in a circle around him. Without Helen near, their gazes grew wary and uncertain. He marched across the snow, feeling the bite of this frozen land, and retrieved his discarded sword. While dipping his bare fingers into the snow brought a shiver, it was nothing compared to the chill that was already bone deep. By the time he stood, the ravens had scrambled, partnering up into smaller groups to run drills. Surprise, surprise—no one had remained behind to join him.
Oddly enough, the affront was almost comforting in its familiarity.
Tossing a sidelong glance at Helen, who stood with a stern expression as she nodded along to the messenger whispering in her ear, Rafe tried to ignore the curiosity needling at his thoughts. If he was meant to know the contents, in due time, he would.
Instead, he spun his twin blades and took up a fighting stance, imagining the foe on the other side as he swiped at the air. It could've been a dragon. It could've been a raven. Oftentimes, it was a mirror—a phantom version of himself that he battled tirelessly, but could never overcome. All the parts of himself he hated. All the moments in his past he wished he could change. A reflection of the secret he kept locked inside, whispering that everyone was right to fear him.
Fire cursed.
Maybe he was.
"Rafe!"
Helen's voice jolted him from the trance. Rafe stopped cold and sheathed his swords, turning toward the sound. When he found the master of the guards alone on the other side of the field, he was surprised by the bright ruby hues painting the sky behind her, clouds made molten by the setting sun.
"You were in another world," she murmured, not teasing, not quite accusing, but with a hint of both. The woman was too shrewd by half, but he respected that because her savvy helped keep his brother safe. Though he couldn't help but think any day now, she'd be the one to uncover his ugly truth, especially as she narrowed her eyes. "Aren't you tired?"
"Exhausted," he said evenly, careful with his tone. "I didn’t realize the time. What did the queen have to say?"
"The schedule's been set for tomorrow. She and Xander will make an announcement at dinner. For now, the guards have gone to wash up, and I suggest you do the same."
Rafe nodded.
"Oh, and one more thing," she said, studying his face for a reaction. "Have you spoken to Xander yet today?"
"No." He frowned. "Why?"
"Just make sure you do." She set her lips in a thin line, staring at him for a moment, then turned and marched away.
Rafe watched her leave, feet frozen against the ground as though they'd grown ice. That sinking feeling from earlier returned, weighing him down. Helen stepped inside one of the guesthouses, though he could still see her outline through the translucent crystals, lit from the inside by oil lanterns flickering yellow against the darkening sky. A few moments later, she was gone, vanishing into the depths of the strange circular dome. All the homes in the House of Peace were the same, arching like the moon over the horizon, made of crystals that trapped the heat of the sun, keeping the inside warm despite the frigid cold.
Shivering as night crept in, Rafe turned on his heels and made for his accommodations on the other side, with the other guards. Normally, he kept close to Xander—claiming a room in the royal quarters of the castle back home, belonging to his personal guard. But tonight, a whisper told him to stay away, to run and hide, that nothing good could come of this conversation Xander and Helen seemed so desperate for him to have. He found an empty room and drew the curtain across the crystal, hiding himself from prying eyes. A bucket of warm water and a wash towel sat in the corner. They would do.
Slowly, Rafe removed his fighting gear, starting with the X-shaped scabbard nestled between his wings and the twin swords housed there, then moving to the knives at his waist, the guards around his forearms, and the metal-laced vest protecting his chest. He stripped out of his pants and shirt, until nothing remained except for him and his secret.
Magic thrummed beneath his skin, a subtle silver sheen sparkling like a river under the sun as it coursed through his veins. Xander was the only other person in the world who knew of it, though his brother claimed the power was invisible to his eyes. Rafe believed him for the simple fact that no other raven had ever seen the metallic hue. If they had, he would've been caught long ago and punished in the same way all those caught with magic were—public execution.
Normally, he could keep the power contained, buried so deep even he sometimes forgot it was there. But after the long flight and the hours of practice, his weary body called on the magic. Using it was as natural as breathing, even if it marked him as the unnatural man they all claimed he was.
So be it, Rafe thought as he reached for the bucket and splashed water on his face, sighing as the heat hit his cold skin. He scrubbed the sweat and grime away, but he'd learned long ago that no matter how hard he rubbed a towel against his skin, the magic couldn't be wiped clean. It was a stain, marking him as other, just one more dark cloud he'd learned to live with.
When he was done, he dressed and met the rest of the guards in the entrance hall. He just had to make it through dinner, and then this godforsaken day would be over.
That was the hope, at least.