Obsidian Thornwing's Arc

Chapter 3 of 18

Obsidian worked through the night behind the watch tower. He tied a strip of cloth loose around his black wing and cut at a wooden post. Every time the wing lifted, the cloth tugged his shoulder and he felt it. Throat. Ribs. Knee. He cut the sequence a hundred times. The wing pulled. He held it. He cut again. By the gray hour before dawn, the wing stayed flat against his back through a full pass. Then through five. Then through twenty. Iron Riven came down the ladder from the mushroom-capped tower with two cups of something hot. He handed one over without a word. Obsidian drank. His arms shook around the cup. "Show me," Iron said. Obsidian set the cup on the ground. He picked up the practice sword. He fixed his eyes on Iron's chest and moved. Throat line, clean. Ribs, clean. He dropped for the knee. His wing did not lift. Iron watched him run the pass three more times. On the fourth, Iron gave a short chuckle from under the green hood. Obsidian had not heard him laugh in months. "There he is," Iron said. "Took you long enough." Obsidian lowered the blade. His chest was tight. "Don't smile yet," Iron said. He drew his own sword. "One more." Obsidian set his stance. Iron did not wait. He came in low and fast, sword hunting for the shoulder Obsidian used to flag. Obsidian read the line, stepped off it, and brought his blade up for the throat. Iron turned it. Obsidian pressed to the ribs. Iron caught it and shoved. Obsidian let the shove carry him down and cut for the knee in the same motion. Iron's boot stopped. The point of Obsidian's practice sword rested against the side of his uncle's leg. Iron looked down at the blade. He looked at Obsidian's back. The black wing lay flat. "Clean," Iron said. He stepped back and sheathed the sword. "You're ready." Obsidian stood. He waited for the correction. It did not come. "Trial's at midday," Iron said. "Eat something. Don't warm up too long. You'll cook the edge off." "Yes." Iron looked at him a beat longer. His mouth was flat but his eyes were not. "Your father would have watched this," he said. "He'd have kept his mouth shut about it, but he'd have watched." Obsidian did not trust his voice, so he nodded. Iron turned back to the ladder. "Wash the dirt off. They mark you down for it." Obsidian stood alone in the trampled grass. His wing sat quiet on his back for the first time in his life. The sun was coming up over the tree line. In a few hours, the royal guard evaluators would call his name, and he would walk into a ring with a body that finally did what he told it.