Viktor was as ruthless an instructor as he was a ruler, meticulous and thorough. I'd gotten used to this, but still, the intensity of it caught me off-guard tonight. He didn't give me time to think or hesitate between strikes.
He used his weapon, his wings, the full force of his strength. And even his magic, which he rarely employed in our training sessions. It was as if he
was trying to show me exactly what it would be like if the King of the Nightborn vampires wanted me dead.
But then again, Viktor had never held back with me. Even when I was a child, he never let me forget how close death lingered. Every falter was met with his hand at my throat, two fingertips pressed to my skin,
mimicking fangs.
You're dead now," he would say. "Try again."
I didn't let him get those fingers to my throat this time. My muscles screamed, already tired from my last encounter, but I dodged every blow, slipped every grip, met every strike with my own. And finally, after
countless, exhausting minutes, I had him against the wall, one finger to his chest–the point of my blade.
"You're dead here," I panted.
And thank the Mother for it, because I wouldn't have survived another fucking second of this match.
The corner of Viktor's lip curled in pride for only a moment. "I could use Asteris."
Asteris. It was probably the most powerful of the Nightborn vampires' magical gifts, and the rarest. Pure energy said to be derived from stars, manifested as blinding black light capable of killing instantly at full force.
Viktor's mastery of it was unmatched. I'd once witnessed him use it to level an entire building of Rishan rebels.
Viktor had tried, over the years, to teach me how to wield magic. I could make a few little sparks. Pathetic compared to the lethal skill of a vampire magic user from the House of Night or any other House that made up the vampire kingdoms.
For a moment, the thought of this was a fresh reminder of all the ways I was inferior to the warriors I was about to face. It made me dizzy. But I
pushed this uncertainty away quickly. "Asteris wouldn't matter if I'd already killed you."
Would you be fast enough? You always struggled to get to use it. You have to push hard to make it through the chest.
I blinked back the unwelcome memory. "Not anymore."
My finger was still pressed to his chest. I was never entirely sure when our sparring sessions ended, so I never let up before the match was called.
He was only a few inches from me, a few inches from my throat. I never, ever allowed any other vampire this close. The smell of my blood was overwhelming to them. Even if a vampire wanted to resist it–and they so rarely did–they might not be able to control themselves.
Viktor had carved these lessons into me.
Never trust. Never yield.
Always guard your heart.
And when I had disobeyed, I had paid for it dearly.
But not with him. Never him. He had packed my bleeding wounds countless times without revealing even a hint of temptation. Had guarded me when I slept. Had cared for me when I was at my weakest.
I spent my entire life afraid, forever conscious of
my weakness and inferiority, but at least I had a single safe harbor.
Viktor's eyes searched my face.
"Very well." He pushed my hand away. I went to the edge of the ring, wincing as I rubbed a wound he'd opened on my arm. He barely glanced at the blood.
"You have to be careful of that when you're in there," he said. "Bleeding. It is never good."
I wrinkled my nose. Goddess, he must be worried. Telling me such basic things. "I know."
"More than usual, Cathrine."
"I know,"
I took a swig of water from my canteen, my back to him. My eyes instead traced the frescoes on the wall–beautiful and terible paintings depicting razor-teethed vampires writhing in a sea of blood beneath silver stars. The arrangement stretched the entire room. This private training ring was reserved for Viktor and his highest-ranking warriors, and it was more disgustingly ornate than any place meant for spit, blood, and sweat should be. The floor was soft ivory sand replaced from the dunes every week. The
fresco covered the circular, windowless wallsa single, panoramic tableau of death and conquering.
The figures depicted in it were Hiaj vampires, with bat-like wings ranging in shade from milky-pale to ash-black. Two hundred years ago, those wings would have been the feathered wings of the Rishan, the rival
Nightborn clan perpetually battling for the throne of the House of Night.
Since the goddess Nyaxia created vampires more than two thousand years agosince before then, some even claimed the two sects waged constant war. And with every turn in the tide, every new bloodline on the throne, this fresco would change. New wings painted and erased, painted and erased, dozens of times over thousands of years.
I glanced over my shoulder at Vincent. He had left his wings out, which was quite unusual. Usually he spirited them away with his magic, unless it was some
diplomatic event that required him to flaunt his Hiaj power. They were long enough that the tips nearly brushed the floor, and black...so black it defied
nature, as if the light seeped into his skin and died there.
The black was unusual, but not unheard of. The red, though, was unique. Each Hiaj or Rishan Heir bore two marks-red on their wings, and another on their body--which appeared when the previous Heir died.
Vincent's Mark was at the base of his throat, just above his clavicle. It was a mesmerizing, ornate design that resembled a full moon and wings,
Wrapping around the front of his neck in crimson as vibrant as a bleeding wound.
I had only seen it a couple of times. He usually covered it beneath high-collared jackets or black silk wrapped tight and neat around his neck.
When I was younger, I had once asked him why he didn't leave it visible more often. He'd just given me a serious stare and blandly remarked that it was unwise to leave one's throat exposed.
That answer shouldn't have surprised me. Viktor was well aware that usurpers lurked around every corner, both outside his walls and within them. Every new king, Hiaj or Rishan, was crowned upon a mountain of
corpses. He had been no exception.
I turned away from the painting, just as he said softly, "It's nearing a full moon. You should have a few more days, but it could begin any time. You need to be ready."
I swallowed another gulp of water. Still, my mouth tasted ashy. "I know."
"The start could be anything. She likes it to be... unexpected."
She. Mother of night, shadow, blood–mother of the ravenous dark. Mother of all vampires. The goddess, Nox.
At any moment, she could trigger the start of the once-in-a-century tribute that the House of Night staged in her honor. A savage tournament of five trials over four months, resulting in only one winner, and
most precious prize the world has ever known: a single gift from the Goddess herself.
Vampires from across Obitraes would travel to participate in the Kijara, drawn by the promise of wealth or honor. Dozens of the most powerful
warriors from all three houses-the House of Night, the House of Shadow, and the House of Blood, would die in pursuit of this title.
And, most likely, so would I.
But they were fighting for power. I was fighting for survival.
Viktor and I both turned to each other at the same time. He was always pale, his skin nearly matching his silver eyes, but now he seemed a downright sickly shade.
His fear made my own unbearable, but I fought it down with a promise.
No. I had trained my entire life for this. I would survive the Kijara. I would win it.
Just like Viktor had before me, two hundred years ago.
He cleared his throat, straightening. "Go change into something decent. We're going to look at your competition."