Page 50 of Heimlock

“Yes, well, apparently you haven’t seen every side of him.” The words come out bitter..

What made you think we were ever close?

Taking an angry sip of my coffee, I stare into the distance, replaying our interactions. Aside from the phone conversation where I told him other people weren't worthy of him, things are rocky, at best. He matches my instigations with mischief. He meets my anger with equal anger. But when I try to dig deeper, he shuts me down. Immediately.

Orliana watches me pensively. She’s been my best friend since I was nineteen. If there’s anyone who truly knows me, it’s her. Which is probably why she says, “You like him, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say dismissively. “I’m not bending ‌my rule. We go to the same battle gym, and I won’t be called a ‘battle bunny’.”

“But you really like him,” she repeats, tone full of disbelief.

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.”

Orliana wraps a strand of hair around a finger, considering me. “And if he weren’t at the gym? What would you do?”

Instead of repeating myself, I give her a stony glare. It’s not worth entertaining what doesn’t exist. He didn’t quit the gym — still hasn’t quit the gym — and that's enough of a message.

“You know that he’s Fynn’s brother, and he’s going to be around a lot, right? Like, a lot?”

“I’m aware,” I grind out.

Orliana levels me with a stern look. “You both need to figure it out. Seriously. Sit down to have a conversation. My relationship is new and tender enough — you both hating one another will definitely put a strain on Fynn and me.”

Shame and guilt eat at me. She’s not wrong. “Fine. I’ll reach out. We’ll talk or whatever.” If we’re secretly organizing her engagement, then it’s necessary, anyway.

The rest of the conversation is her filling me in on the new life with Fynn, but all I can think about is the text I’m going to have to send later. For Orliana, I’ll do it. When she needed me most, I wasn’t there to protect her. I missed the signs; for her, I’ll do anything to make it up.

20

Age 30

Sonder, a Water Sprite, tosses a ball of water at my face. I deflect it with a shield of fire. Steam hisses, its furious tendrils whipping into the air.

“Close one,” I taunt Sonder, grinning. Dirt cakes our sweat-covered bodies. She’s about my height and build; this is a friendly game where both of us are unlikely to get hurt. Her skin is extremely resistant to fire, even without a shield.

My left fist hooks into her cheek; spit flies out of her mouth. My teeth almost crack from her right fist colliding upward to the bottom of my jaw. The mouth guard barely protects me from her vicious punches.

Lighting my fists on fire, I parry her hits with volleys of my own. Bruises bloom and sweat flings across the space. On the outskirts of the arena, Coach watches, arms crossed. His nondescript features show no emotion. After thirteen years together, he’s still hard to read, unless he’s screaming at you.

With a swift kick to her gut, Sonder stumbles backward. Just as I bend my knees, preparing for a launch, Coach says, “Enough.”

Instantly, we’re done, bumping fists with bloody grins. We’ll grab drinks later and give one another critiques. Coach is adamant that while we might often fight each other in the arena, we aren’t competitors. It’s for show. Period. It's why we’re never given awards — it’s about learning, every step of the way.

“Sonder, your left jab needs work. You don’t pivot enough on the back heel. Go shadow box. Kyrielle, your right hook needs more follow-through. Hit the bag for twenty minutes.”

“Yes, Coach,” we say in unison, knowing it’s fruitless to argue. With one last shared smile, we split up. Sauntering toward a punching bag, I get to work.

Thirty minutes later, I’m gathering my things and checking my phone. Twenty missed calls. Half are from Talia; the other half is Orliana.

Immediately, adrenaline races through my veins, and my heart gallops like I’m still in the arena.

I call Orliana first. No answer.

I call Talia. No answer.

Whatever it is, it’s bad. Alternating between the two, I’m sprinting out of the battle gym, almost running into a blue Dragon. I don’t even look at his face, filled with panic.

“Sorry,” I mutter. He says something, but the buzzing in my ears makes it hard to focus. Rushing away, I press Orliana’s number again. “Pick up, pick up!”