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    Summary

    I blink a couple of times, frozen to the spot as I stand in the doorway to the sparring gym for the extra practice Riorson insisted on for all of us first years.

    Which is ridiculous, considering I know more about fighting than most of the Navarrian second and third years in this place. Even before I received instruction with my foster family, my mother made sure I would always know how to defend myself. This is ridiculous because I’ve been training. Hard. Even more so since the executions. I’ve been training every single fucking day since my mother and sister were burned right in front of me, determined to make it out of Basgiath alive. Determined to graduate and eventually get my revenge on the assholes who murdered my family.

    But at the sight of Garrick Tavis standing on the mat completely shirtless, a light sheen of sweat coating his muscled chest, arms crossed while he waits for me and the other first year that’s been assigned to this practice time, I can’t exactly bring myself to feel as offended as I know I should.      

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