Chapter 257
We let Elanora and Lile lead the way while we stay close behind. Neither of them has said much since we left the residential wing. I keep glancing at Cora, who walks calmly, but I can tell she’s on edge, her shoulders tight with restraint.
Me? I don’t trust these people as far as I can throw them, but now that the option of learning more about their powers… I’m practically salivating in anticipation.
When we reach the door to the training room, Miore pauses and gestures. “This way. It looks as if we’re in luck.”
I exchange a look with Cora before stepping inside.
The room is massive and empty, with floors padded in a dull gray material that looks like it could absorb an explosion. The far wall is lined with sleek and mirrored observation panels, but they give me a strange feeling, like someone’s always watching.
But it’s what’s happening in the center of the room that captures my full attention.
Wake.
He’s stripped down to a sleeveless black shirt and combat pants, moving like water across the floor, his staff spinning in one hand, the curved knife from Ao glinting in the other. Across from him stands Lile, shirtless and barefoot, the air around him shimmering with frost. His body is covered in geometric ink and small runes I don’t recognize, like tattoos carved from permafrost.
I blink in surprise. I didn’t realize they were sparring.
And not just sparring—fighting.
Wake pivots, barely avoiding a sudden burst of ice that shoots toward his face. It hits the wall behind him and cracks with a thunderous snap, frost spiderwebbing out in jagged patterns. He doesn’t flinch. He just shifts his weight and throws the knife.
It sails through the air, whistling past Lile’s ear, missing him by inches.
Lile hurls a sheet of ice in retaliation, and Wake dives beneath it, rolling across the floor, his fingers outstretched as the knife comes spinning back to him mid-roll. He catches it, never losing momentum, and sweeps Lile’s legs from under him with the staff.
Lile crashes to the mat but recovers quickly, launching a spike of ice upward that nearly impales Wake’s shoulder. Wake grunts and twists aside, narrowly dodging it. He’s not even winded.
I can barely breathe.
Cora crosses her arms, watching intently. “He’s holding back.”
“Who?” I ask, my voice low.
“Wake,” she murmurs. “He’s not using his full speed.”
I look again—and she’s right. I recognize the signs. The hesitation in his strikes, the way he lets Lile counter more than once when we both know he could’ve ended it sooner.
Lile, on the other hand, is all sharp lines and discipline. His strikes are precise, almost too precise. He moves like he was trained in a military compound, all repetition and control. Powerful, but predictable.
Wake thrives on unpredictability.
He spins, feinting left and then slamming the staff down to block another incoming blade of ice. The collision sends a shockwave through the floor, and frost splinters out beneath them like veins on a frozen lake. Wake flips backward, vaulting off the cracked floor and landing with impossible grace.
He throws his knife again, and this time, it lands—not in flesh, but embedded in the ice sword, shattering it completely with a sound like crystal exploding.
Lile’s expression flickers—just a split second of frustration—and Wake takes the opening. He sweeps low, knocks the wind out of Lile with a blow to the ribs, and ends it by pinning him to the mat with the flat edge of his staff across Lile’s throat.
Lile struggles for a beat, then freezes.
Silence.
Lile coughs once, breathless. “I yield.”
Wake releases him and steps back, offering a hand to help him up. Lile takes it, nodding with reluctant respect.
I exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
The moment feels heavy, weighty with more than just the end of a match. There’s pride here, but also tension. Rivalry, maybe. Or the whisper of something coming.
Then the silence is broken.
A slow, deliberate clap echoes through the room, cold and condescending.
I turn toward the mirrored wall.
“Very good,” says a voice, smooth and rich with quiet amusement. “A worthy match. I applaud you both.”
A section of the mirrored panel slides away, revealing Shoal behind it, standing in a narrow corridor lined with monitors. His dark eyes are lit with intrigue, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Of course, he was watching.
Shoal steps forward into the room, graceful and self-assured. He’s dressed in pale gray, almost the color of morning mist, and it makes his dark features stand out even more sharply. He moves with that same disarming elegance he always has—like a dancer pretending not to be a predator.
“Brother,” Shoal says, spreading his hands. “You’ve still got that… theatrical flair. I’d almost forgotten how entertaining you can be.”
Wake doesn’t respond. His chest rises and falls with barely concealed annoyance. The knife slides back into his hand, as if summoned by thought alone, and he tucks it away without taking his eyes off Shoal.
Shoal’s gaze sweeps to me, then to Cora. “I’m glad you decided to join us. I thought it might be… illuminating.”
He smiles again.
And I can’t help but wonder which part he’s referring to. The fight?
Or how easily we walked into this theater he built for us?
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