Chapter 73: Training Begins
The cathedral’s upper halls were quiet in the way that always made me suspicious.
Not peaceful quiet. Not the comforting hum of a holy place at rest. No—this was the kind of quiet that pressed its palms against your ears and whispered you should be doing something. I’d slept better than I had in weeks, a deep, dreamless plunge into oblivion that left me almost smug when I awoke. But now, with sunlight bleeding thin through the high windows, a kind of tight urgency curled around my ribs. The kind that didn’t care how well I’d slept. The kind that wanted me to start moving.
Training. I needed to start training.
The thought looped in my mind like a sermon I didn’t believe in but couldn’t stop reciting. The Solarian Crucible was one week away, and I had no idea what kind of monsters—human or otherwise—I’d be staring down in the ring. Every cathedral, every estate, every mercenary circle worth a damn would send their best. Solaris was huge, and its definition of "the best" could range anywhere from honorable duelists to feral axe-wielders who used spinal columns as keepsakes. I wasn’t in the mood to find out the hard way which I’d be facing.
And yet—another thought gnawed at me harder than the tournament itself.
Salem.
The way he fought in the street last night... it hadn’t been normal. Not just good—I’d seen good. I’d fought good. His movements were too fast, too fluid, too damn unnatural, like his body had been tuned to a different law of physics than the rest of us. And the worst part? I could feel it.
He was holding back. Which meant one thing.
I needed to spy on him.
Oh don’t give me that look—if someone’s going to be traveling with me, bleeding beside me, and possibly saving my life in a week’s time, I have a right to know what their spine-cracking secrets are. And if that involves a little harmless surveillance, well, saints forbid.
I strolled down the upper hall, keeping my steps light. The floor was a patchwork of polished black stone that reflected the cathedral’s sunlight like water. Old glass windows lined the walls, each one etched with saints and their self-important miracles. Halfway down, I stopped by one of the narrower windows and leaned in, careful not to cast a shadow on the garden below.
And there he was.