Burn (Dark Seasons: Foolish Kingdoms Book 3) by Natalia Jaster

Author:Natalia Jaster [Jaster, Natalia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Natalia Jaster
Published: 2023-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

29

Poet

My dagger cut through the distance and punctured a figure’s stomach. Pivoting and scissoring into the air, I executed a backhanded toss and sent another blade flying. This one speared into the figure’s throat, piercing its larynx before shooting through the opposite side, the weapon’s tip protruding from the back.

My muscles burned, but scarcely hot enough. Refusing to pause for breath, I vaulted into a series of twists and ducks across a network of suspended beams lined in barbs. Gliding through like smoke and leaping onto an upper platform that swayed from side to side, I whipped out the next dagger and let it fly, striking my adversary between the eyes. The weapon speared the skull clean through and pinned it to a wood-plank wall, which marked a dead end.

The obstruction materialized so quickly, I staggered in place at the stable edge of the crossway. Around me, numerous suspensions with serrated railings and swinging impediments comprised the training course, meant to test a fighter’s balance, dexterity, and aim. The main target drooped in front of me, its form stapled to the partition and signifying I’d successfully completed the track.

More than that, it appeared. I’d depleted myself of every blade and pulverized every vital organ the mannequin possessed.

Wind blew through the practice yard. The lawn was vacant for a good reason. Only a fool would be out here, on planks raised high off the ground, training in this weather.

My lungs siphoned oxygen, my chest pounded, and sweat drenched my bare skin. The mannequin slumped against the wall, its burlap face void of expression and sand trickling from the wounds like fake blood. I had a fine imagination, pictured the face before me, and wasn’t nearly done with him.

Yanking my dagger from the target’s skull, I juggled the hilt and lashed out of my arm, slicing its face horizontally. The satisfaction was short-lived. Too many parts of its body remained unscathed, so that I slashed through the mannequin’s husk, from its hip, to its wrists, to its invisible mouth. Flipping the blade in my fingers, I slammed the tip through the figure’s heart.

That miserable, useless, fucking heart.

Guttural sounds launched from my tongue. Over and over, I thrust the dagger through. The burlap fibers split. More sand gushed from its body, and my thoughts spiraled as that imaginary face became clearer.

Dropping the blade, I smashed my fist into the husk, clear through to the wood facade. Then again, and again, and again. Putting my whole weight into it, I rammed my knuckles into the enemy’s face, pain exploding in my hand and fluid oozing from the gashes. The sound of splintering wood and a howling wind funneled through my ears, and my joints felt as though they were being roasted on an open flame, yet my arm refused to stop. Not giving a wicked fuck, I hammered into the lifeless figure, the wall behind it cracking.

I cranked my arm back—and a set of fingers caught my bicep. With a grunt, I veered. My attention locked onto Aire’s, those solemn blue orbs reflecting my own glazed pupils.

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