Page 107 of Starside

He clicks his tongue. “You’re too predictable. Fool.”

“Stop calling me that,” I growl.

“Stop being one,” he says, just as irritated as me.

I try again. Again. Every single time, he anticipates my moves, like he’s a damned oracle. I exhale roughly in annoyance.

I move to dig my sword into the stone, just like he has a dozen times, but it doesn’t pierce the ground at all. I try, and try, only managing to make my blood boil. My back teeth grind together, and I try one more time, before I growl in frustration. Raker just watches on, leaning forward against his own sword, his huge hands gripping the hilt. I can practically feel the arrogance coming off him in waves.

My head snaps up. “You’re better than me. Happy? Is that what you wanted? For me to say it?”

He lifts a shoulder. “It goes without saying.”

I glare at him. I hate him. But I need to survive the Questral. He has more training than I’ll ever know. Even though I feel like flinging my sword to the ground and walking out of this cave, maybe all the way to the fucking gates, I swallow my pride and bitterness, and say, “Help me be better.”

He just looks at me for a long time. Then he wrenches his sword from the ground. He falls into another stance and motions for me to follow. “Start with this.”

Raker teaches me the proper way to hold my new sword over my shoulder, in a position ready to strike.

And nothing else.

After several minutes of insisting I’m not doing it right, then relenting that my feet are, in fact, in the right place, Raker gives a sharp nod, then walks away. He starts removing things from his pack, and I just stand there, still as a statue.

“Now what?” I finally ask. I know this position already. Of course I do. The heavier metal means more energy is needed. A slightly different stance—fine. I’ve learned it. Now I want to get to how to actually wield this sword.

“Nothing,” Raker says flatly.

My eye twitches. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Stay there, until I say otherwise.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. Still, I open my mouth. Close it. His back toward me, he digs his sword into the stone. He removes some of his armor. He sinks to the ground.

And the bastard goes to sleep.

“Fuck,” I breathe, halfway torn between flinging my sword at him in anger and staying here all night out of stubbornness.

This is clearly a test. He wants to see if I’m even worth training. If I can listen. If I can learn. If I have willpower.

Or maybe the demon has no intention of training me and just wants to make me suffer.

It doesn’t take long for this simple position to become excruciating. My arms begin to tremble. My sword shakes with them, just inches from my neck. Damn it. If I cut my throat with my own blade, I don’t know whether the blood loss or embarrassment will kill me first.

I breathe. I steady my core. I bend my knees slightly, using the rest of my muscles to offset the weight. To help.

Soon, my entire body is quivering.

This sword is a gift, I remind myself. It’s an honor to have been chosen by such a blade.

I need to stop thinking of it as a burden. As something too heavy to hold. I need to start thinking of it as something to be worthy of.

My sword doesn’t need to be lighter. I just need to be strong enough to carry it.

You believed in me, I think, apparently having reached a point of pain that I am speaking to my sword in my head.

If you didn’t believe in me, you wouldn’t have claimed me.

I must really be losing my mind.

Because through all the shaking, I swear I feel another jolt. A tiny spark, like a glimmer of encouragement.