Chapter 116: Finding a Specialty

Iskanda plopped me back onto the sand like I weighed no more than a misplaced pillow, and the moment my feet hit the ground she let loose a laugh so big, warm, and thunderous that it vibrated through my ribs and rattled something suspiciously close to pride in my chest.

It wasn’t a normal laugh either. It was the kind of booming, abdominal earthquake that made my bones reconsider their allegiance to structural stability.

I brushed the sand off my knees before looking up at her with what I hoped passed for dignity, even though I was ninety percent certain my hair looked like I’d been fighting a small tornado armed with a grudge.

Iskanda gave me a sharp nod before folding her arms, leaning back slightly, and saying, “Not bad, not bad at all,” in this tone that vibrated with approval I had absolutely no idea what to do with.

We stood there facing each other in the center of the still-settling circle while the other Velvets whispered among themselves about how someone like me, someone they’d mentally filed under Drudgepupil, had managed to slip past Iskanda’s guard for even a moment.

A few of them were giving me side-eyes sharp enough to slice fruit while others watched with a strange combination of curiosity and something that felt eerily like respect.

Iskanda took a single step forward, her shadow falling over mine with the casual authority of someone who didn’t need to demand space because the room gave it to her on its own.

“We’re not done,” she said, with this crisp, unyielding certainty that made me straighten up like I’d been pulled by a string. “Breaking my step was impressive. But strength alone is useless unless you learn where to send it. Today, we’re going to fix that.”

She circled me with the deliberate slowness of someone sizing up a project they were already planning to overhaul from floorboards to rafters, and I tried very hard not to fidget under the pressure of thirty some pairs of eyes silently judging every twitch of my soul.

I knew she wasn’t trying to intimidate me; this was just Iskanda’s natural gravity, the kind that pulled everyone else into orbit whether they liked it or not.

After another slow lap around me, she gestured toward the broader training grounds, the dimly lit expanse full of targets, dummies, racks of weapons, and obstacles that looked like they were designed by a committee of lunatics who each specialized in a different method of accidental self-destruction.

“Come,” she said, and I followed her with quiet obedience.

We moved from drill to drill with the efficiency of someone who had done this a hundred times before and the clumsy determination of someone who absolutely had not. I, unfortunately, fell into the second category.

Fencing came first, and despite never holding a rapier before in my life, I managed to parry her three times before she flicked the blade out of my hand with such ease that I briefly wondered if gravity worked differently in her personal vicinity.

Next came spear throwing, which I discovered was both extremely satisfying and slightly terrifying, because there was something very concerning about how effortless it felt to hurl a sharpened stick hard enough to make a straw dummy bend like it was reconsidering its life choices.

From there, we hopped between martial arts faster than my brain could catalog them: Judo that felt like controlled falling, wrestling that felt like uncontrolled falling, and Karate that mostly involved me trying to remember which leg was the kicking leg while Iskanda shouted helpful things like “Use the other leg!” and “No, your other other leg!” from somewhere behind me.

By the time we reached the weapon rack again, I was convinced I was living my final hour. And that was when she grabbed it—a bow.

A simple one. A worn one. A bow so humble it looked like it had seen at least four different owners and resented them all.

Iskanda smiled at it the way normal people smile at puppies or warm bread. Which was when I realized archery wasn’t just her preference. It was her specialty.

“We’ll end with this,” she said, handing me the bow with exaggerated ceremony, like she was knighting me with a stick. “Archery is about precision, not brute force. If you can’t master this, you can’t master anything else I teach you.”

Across from us, about thirty paces away, stood a lonely straw dummy with a face that looked like someone had drawn it with their non-dominant hand at the last minute.

I lifted the bow and felt immediately like someone holding a violin purely because they’d seen other people holding violins and were hoping instinct would fill in the rest.

Iskanda stepped behind me to adjust my stance, and while she stayed perfectly professional, I felt myself stiffen up purely because being corrected by someone whose torso was roughly the size of my entire body was a smidge overwhelming.

She nudged my elbows, pushed my shoulders down, straightened my spine, and told me nine different things about breathing that I forgot the second she said them.

“You’ll miss the first shot,” she said in this comforting, matter-of-fact voice that somehow didn’t feel like an insult. “Everyone does. But please, try not to gouge anyone’s eye out.”

A wave of snickers rippled from the sidelines, and I felt my face heat up with the sudden pressure of performing while being gently roasted by a room full of strangers.

I nocked the arrow—or tried to, anyway, because the way it wobbled between my fingers probably made me look like a baby bird attempting to perform open-heart surgery with spaghetti.

The Velvets leaned in with varying levels of amusement, Iskanda stepped back with a slow, reluctant look—like she wanted to keep adjusting things but was actively fighting the urge—and then everything in me settled.

My eyes narrowed. My heartbeat steadied. The world went sharp around the edges.

Elven sight.

The bowstring drew back with a soft groan, the wood flexing with surprising resilience, and for the first time all day, something clicked. My body moved the way it sometimes did when I wasn’t thinking, when I just let everything happen the way it was supposed to, and then—

Thwack.

I swear, the second that arrow left my fingers, I knew something ridiculous was about to happen. The air made this little fffwhip sound, like even physics was whispering, “Wait what the hell is this kid doing?”

Then the room fell into this deep, deathly silence, the kind that usually precedes a murder or a tax audit. Every Velvet in the hall leaned forward like a flock of judgmental flamingos as the arrow carved a perfect line across the air and buried itself right between the straw dummy’s eyes.

Dead center.

A shot so perfect even the dummy looked offended, as if it had been unfairly singled out after years of service. I stood there frozen, bow still trembling between my fingers, waiting for someone to accuse me of witchcraft or illegal performance-enhancing vegetables.

Then the murmuring started—hushed, shock-strangled whispers forcing their way into the space like scandalized pigeons invading a cathedral. A handful of Velvets recoiled like the arrow had landed in one of their childhood traumas.

“Beginner’s luck!” one of them yelled with the confidence of someone deeply invested in denial.

I could’ve let it go; I could’ve shrugged and pretended it was a fluke. But no. No, my pride has always been a poorly supervised toddler with a kitchen knife, and this was its moment.

So I turned, held out one hand toward Iskanda, and gave her a little wiggle-wiggle gesture with my fingers.

“Arrow,” I said, trying very hard not to look smug.

Iskanda blinked, something between pride and suspicion flickering across her face. She passed it to me slowly, suspiciously, like she was handing a chainsaw to a raccoon.

I nocked it, inhaled, narrowed my eyes, and let the Elven Sight flick on again—that bright, electric focusing that sharpened the air around me. Once more my body moved on autopilot, that strange calm sliding into my limbs.

I let loose.

The arrow flew.

And then the room collectively lost its mind.

Because the second arrow didn’t just hit the dummy. It split the first arrow in half. Cleanly. Perfectly. In a way that looked like I had planned it, practiced it, mastered it, and then taken an artistic liberty for good measure.

For three full seconds nobody moved. Not a breath, not a whisper, not a rustle of fabric.

And then—chaos.

Murmurs erupted so fast they tangled with each other, shock spreading through the crowd like someone had kicked a hornet’s nest made entirely of gossip.

A few Velvets screamed—not in fear, but in this weird, excited “What the fuck did I just see!” sort of way—while others tried to regain composure only to lose it again when their brains replayed the image.

Before I could even begin to process the weight of what I’d done, Iskanda grabbed me under the arms and lifted me clean off the floor as if I weighed the same as an enthusiastic house cat.

She spun once in a full circle, laughing with such unfiltered joy that some of the other Velvets instinctively straightened their posture like they’d been caught slacking.

I didn’t squeal. I made a sound of mild alarm, which was absolutely different. The bow clattered to the sand, long forgotten, and Iskanda set me back down with enough force to make my knees wobble.

“A natural born archer!” she declared, ruffling my hair with a pride so intense it made my scalp tingle. “A prodigy! A Phenomenon! I knew I was right to choose you as my pupil.”

Before I could respond, the door behind us banged open and Dunny, of all people, stumbled inside carrying a small silver tray. On it was a pot of tea steaming so aggressively it looked ready to snap at him.

“Lady Iskanda, your tea has arrived!” he chirped, nearly tripping but somehow saving both himself and the pot at the last millisecond.

Iskanda’s face lit up then. “Ah! Wonderful timing.” She took the pot and poured herself a cup, taking a long, satisfied sip before turning back to me and saying, “let us retreat to my quarters. We have much to discuss. Dunny, follow.”

We left the training grounds as the murmurs continued to whirl behind us like a hurricane of speculation. The dark hallways swallowed us again, flickering torchlight brushing strange patterns across the walls as Dunny tried very hard not to spill anything.

I slowed just enough to drift beside him and whispered, low and quick, “Midnight. Barracks. Don’t be late.”

Dunny made a noise somewhere between a hiccup and a squeak. I clamped my hand gently over his mouth before it became a squeak with witnesses. Iskanda half-turned.

“Everything all right?”

“Perfectly fine,” I said with what I hoped was a normal smile. “Nothing concerning happening at all.”

Her eyebrow arched in the exact way that made me internally apologize for every lie I’d told in my lifetime, but she let it go. Eventually we reached her door again, which opened with the same elegant sweep it always had.

Inside, she set her tea on the nightstand, rolled her shoulders once like she was about to unveil some secret treasure, and then crossed to her wardrobe. She rummaged a moment before pulling out a rolled, dusty map that looked like it had been stolen from a museum that itself had been stolen from an older museum.

She unfurled it across the bed, the parchment crackling like ancient bones.

“Come here,” she said, tapping the corner. “It’s time you learned the secrets of this city.”

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