Breeder (The Ephemeral: Book 1)

Chapter 2

At the top of the hill sat a large, circular stadium capable of seating the entire population of Belgate. Most days of the year, it served as a training ground for soldiers, but today the city would be working hard to prep the grounds for the morning's festivities.

I hurried toward the flat-roofed building adjacent to the stadium and slipped through the door. Inside, swords and shields and other training equipment bejeweled the mortared stone walls. The room had that old gymnasium smell, like the sweat had simply seeped into the floor and festered in the deep crevices of the building.

Using the mounted shields and helmets as grips, I climbed up the wall to my left and pushed myself through the hatch in the wooden ceiling. Closing the access door behind me, I wriggled through the narrow attic space on my hands and knees. The air reeked familiarly of rat droppings and mildew, and I wondered if any new vermin had claimed my territory since my last visit.

In the dark, I located the loose ceiling plank and moved it aside, peering through the lath-shaped hole as the trainees entered the room below.

"My father bought it in Holly. The 'smith said it was one of a kind, first class! Paid two whole decks for it," Mason revealed, thriving off the startled gasps of his companions. The boy's pale eyes were permanently fixed in the shape of disdain, and his golden hair ran in tangled rivulets toward the back of his head. He sort of looked like a deranged eagle that way. "Worth it though. I can already tell the difference."

He swung around his new rapier like a doofus, the others admiring the object in awe, sinking with envy.

I tutted quietly. Typical Mason, parading around with his new toy, flashing his family's wallet in our faces. Like all weeds, he descended from the families who'd monopolized essential resources while the world was burning.  They thought their inheritance bought them the right to become a public nuisance.

Easy to pick out.  Easy to offend.

He leered at the boy in the corner—the only boy who'd yet to acknowledge his existence. "Jealous, Tooms?"

Will blinked back at him slowly, very much uninterested. He wore his usual black pants and gray, threadbare shirt, his boots almost as decrepit as mine. 

His silence failed to deter Mason.  "See, my old man recognized my skills. Thought I deserved the best equipment. Top of the line for a proper soldier." He arched a golden eyebrow. "I guess your fire iron speaks for itself."

"I guess."

The blond bristled at Will's docility. He didn't want the outcast to indulge him; he wanted to pick a fight, like always.  "Is that all you have to say, welt?"

Will dragged his tired gaze to Mason once more, lips parting to deliver a witty insult, but then his eyes flicked to the boy's wrist, and he frowned. "You're holding it wrong."

"...What?"

"Your sword. Your grip is wrong. Hook your finger around the ring. It'll keep you from overextending. Won't mess up your hand if you ever manage to kill a Rhean."

Titters spilled through the room, and Mason flushed, dropping his provocation.

Will drew his eyes away in a lazy, unimpressed motion.

William Tooms was all sharp edges. Messy black hair fell over his forehead, the bulk of it tied back in a short, scraggly ponytail. His eyes were dark as well, darker than brown, but not completely black. In the four years I'd known him, he'd only worn two distinct facial expressions—exhausted disinterest and what I could only describe as back off, I bite.