To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

The morning comes hard and brutal, with phantom chisels chipping at my temples.

I groan, the sharp thud a painful reminder that caspun is far from the perfect anecdote. Effective, yes ... but not without some truly heinous side effects that worsen with every amassed dose.

Peeling my eyes open, I reach out and pat the other side of the bed, finding it cold and empty.

Seems Baze values his balls more than he was letting on.

Blades of gold shaft through the southern window, and despite my abrasive mood, I kick off the blankets and slide out of bed.

The jarring movement rattles my tender brain, but I drag my feet toward the window and place myself in a column of light that douses me with a cloak of warmth. I roll my sleeves, offering more skin to the early morning sunshine that’s so very rare these days.

Pushing the doors open, I step onto my balcony, gripping the balustrade and looking out across the ocean often heaving beneath a slate sky. Today, it’s a blue haze reaching for a dazzling horizon.

I take in the glassy stretch of Bitten Bay, gilded in the morning light. I’ve always imagined some giant creature leapt out of the sea and took a bite from the obsidian cliff, leaving the black, sandy scoop littered with sharp rocks.

The name felt fitting to a five-year-old me.

One end boasts a rarely used jetty, an empty sea-perch pointing west.

My attention drifts to the heavily forested North, and movement draws my eye to where unbridled trees meet the vast field of manicured grass.

Rhordyn emerges from the dense, ancient woods that howl at night and whisper in the day, and my heart stills, all the breath escaping my lungs.

He’s not alone—if you call the stag draped across his broad shoulders a companion.

Its slit throat drips blood down Rhordyn’s front as he stalks in long strides across the grassy halo ...

My grip on the banister tightens.

His chin tilts, gaze darting up, and I feel like I’ve just been shot with two icy arrows.

I gasp and pull back, severing the contact, hand pressed against my chest.

The distant thud of feet echoing up my stairwell has my head whipping around, attention snapping to the door.

“Shit.”

I dash inside, groaning as the movement makes my tender brain bounce.

One hundred and forty steps ... ish. That’s all I’ve got left to dress and gather the loose strands of my composure before Baze lures me downstairs for an ass whipping I’m currently in no shape to contend with.

After draining half my pitcher, I peel off my clothes and toss them in the direction of the laundry bin. I pull on some fresh undergarments and wrap my breasts using a stretchy length of material to flatten them with practiced dexterity.

Those steps draw closer, and my heart sits heavy in my throat.

I snatch a black button-down and leather pants—my favorite ones that are well worn and easy to move in. I’m just fiddling the buttons into place when Baze yells out, “Twenty step marker. You better be decent!”

I race toward my bed and drop low, roll the rug, then delve my nails into the grooves and lift the slab of stone, revealing my cache.

Twelve jars filled with bitter white nodes that look like harmless sweets to the untrained eye. But they’re certainly not harmless, and right now, they’re my salvation.

Placing one under my tongue, I replace the jar, slide the stone back into place, and unroll the rug.

The door swings open.

I jolt, smacking the back of my head on the underside of the bed frame. “Ouch.”

“What the hell are you doing under there?” Baze bristles, his feet rounding the bed.

The Exothryl melts into a creamy liquid I swallow back, snatching an old paintbrush off the ground before wiggling out. By the time I’m free, my heart is squeezing blood through me in fierce, urgent beats.

I peer up at Baze, waving the brush at him. “Would you look at that! I wondered where this had gotten to.”

He frowns, scanning the room, studying my jar full of brushes a touch too long before scanning me—mainly my messy hair.

“I’m surprised you’re even awake,” he says, eyes narrowing as I clamber up and dust myself off. “I thought you’d be out all morning.”

Ignoring his comment, I concentrate on unraveling the braid that falls to my hip, then sweep my hair into a ponytail, the silence stretching between us.

Unsaid words piling up.

He breaks first with a weighted sigh, thrusting my wooden sword at me. “Here. I had the nicks smoothed out so it’s less likely to split. Obviously I’ve got nothing better to do than to run around after you all day.”

“Ohh, you’re handy,” I say with a wink, trying not to bounce all over the place from my sudden surge of migraine-melting, artificially induced adrenaline. “And Rhordyn pays you to be my friend, so quit sulking.”

Muttering something beneath his breath, he spins and stalks toward the door. I follow, snatching my knapsack off its hook, a small smile tipping my lips. At least until he slams to a stop.

Colliding with his back, I let out a dense oomph.

“Wha—” My gaze drops to the discarded undergarment at his feet.

Oops.

“From now on, you meet me in the training hall.” He shudders, pushing forward again. “And no more sleepovers.”

* * *

Itake a step and spin, leashed to Baze’s prowling essence circling me like a shark; feeling his keen stare on my face, my hands, my feet.

The hairs on my arms are at attention, tasting the salty air for movement, the bare soles of my feet cushioned by thick, wild grass.

Every muscle is knotted, poised to pounce. Every shift that doesn’t topple me over the edge of this cliff is a miracle in itself.

A blow of chill, briny air teases past my nose, attempting to tame my internal unrest ...

Failing.

“I hate wearing this stupid thing,” I mutter, insinuating the blindfold knotted around my head. “What’s it supposed to achieve except to scare me into thinking I’m about to step off the precipice and plunge to certain death?”

Another shift of my foot—another quarter spin.

Still alive ...

“By eliminating your sight,” Baze proclaims on a sigh, “we sharpen your other senses. Touch, smell ...”

I scrunch my nose. “On that note, I wish you’d have washed my handmaiden off y—”

“Hearing,” he interrupts. The air shifts, and so do my hands and the sword I’m wielding, intercepting his strike before it can land a hit to my right shoulder.

There’s a splintering twang, the blow shooting up my arms. But it’s not the force of the hit that makes me feel like my skull has been cleaved down the middle and wrenched open.

It’s the sound our weapons make when they clash.

Our swords aren’t made from a soft wood like the one I started training with five years ago—the one that struck with a dull thud and split after two months. We’ve since upgraded, again and again.

Theseare made from a petrified wood that’s hard and sharp and brutal.

Jarring.

I block a blow swinging for my abdomen, splitting the air with another sharp sound that strikes its own sort of match. It takes me three deep breaths to temper the hot surge threatening to flood my brain, and by the time I get there, my patience is nothing but a brittle twig ready to snap.

“I hate these new swords.” I remove my blindfold, squinting when the morning light takes a dig at me. “They’re loud and heav—”

A blow lands to the back of my knee, sending bolts of pain lancing up my leg.

I wail, buckling.

My hands plunge into the fluffy grass, absorbing the full brunt of my weight as my palm clips on a stone, bloodying the air.

I gulp breath, spine curled, body refusing to move. “That wa—wow ...” I inspect the fresh graze. “That was just mean.”

Baze lurks around me in tight, taunting circles, passing by the precipice, seemingly unperturbed that one wrong step could send him plummeting all the way to the bay. “You’re too easily distracted first thing in the morning.” He casts me a sideways glower that chafes my skin. “Up!”

I scramble to my feet, careful not to edge too close to the drop. Straight ahead, the castle sits atop the ridge—a robust, gothic cathedral drinking every drop of light that falls its way. My tower shoots up from the northern wing like a stalk reaching for the sun.

Stony Stem.

It’s partially decorated in dangling pops of purple from my wisteria vine, its long shadow cast left across Vateshram Forest.

“I’m not distracted.”

Just tempted to toss this stupid sword into the bay.

I grip the pommel with both hands, ignoring my stinging palm, bouncing foot to foot to alleviate the little balls of energy bursting through my veins. “Come at me. Right now. I’ll prove just how not distracted I am.”

He leers at me through the gaps of his wind-tousled hair. “No, Laith. I told you we’re slowing it down this morning; forcing you to focus. Now, put the blindfold back on before I make you haul rocks.”

I roll my eyes and groan.

Slowing it down when all I want to do is the opposite.

Sometimes Exothryl wears off quickly, other times not. This morning, the effects are lingering—churning me into a storm of bridled chaos—and I’m stuck doing this.

Slowing it down.

I pull the damn blindfold on, severing my sight of his menacing posture and bruising eyes. “I want my old sword back. I feel like I’ve been forced back to basics.”

“It’s only been a few months. Give yourself time to get used to the Petrified Pine. I actually prefer it.”

The hairs on my right arm prickle ...

Wood whistles through the air, and I bend to the left, dropping to a crouch and lashing my sword in a wide arc. In my mind’s eye, I picture him leaping back so I don’t slash his kneecaps.

“I’m happy for you,” I bite out through clenched teeth. “But I still want my old one back.”

It might have taken me a while to warm up to it at the start, but I grew fond of that thing—even went to the effort of painting vines around the pommel.

“No can do. Mine split, remember? That old sword of yours is too soft. My new one would shatter it in a single blow.”

Such folly.

“Can’t you just ...make another?”

“No,” he says from behind, and I whirl, body bracing for impact. “That Snow Oak was imported from the Deep South years ago when there were still regular trading ships trekking down the River Norse. I know the new ones sound a little sharper, but you’ll just have to make do.”

My eyes narrow on his presumed whereabouts. “I’m sure you used a similar excuse three years ago when we changed from Inglewood to White Maple ...”

His sword whistles toward me again, and I intercept, our blades dragging as he pulls away. The sharp sound scrapes into me, infects me, raking a shiver through my entire body.

Mind emptying, I scurry backward.

“Stop!”

A burst of wind skims up my spine, flicking my ponytail, lifting the hairs on the back of my neck.

“The cliff is just behind you ...”

My heart lurches and I leap forward, squealing.

Baze releases a deep chuckle that has me snatching off the blindfold and tossing it over the edge of the cliff that was, in fact, right behind me.

All humor melts off his face as he strides forward and watches the thing flutter away on a whip of wind. “Well, that was immature.”

“Good riddance,” I snip, keeled over from my near-death experience.

That is not the type of exhilaration I was chasing.

Baze sighs so loud I can hear it over another gust of wind driving up the cliff. “Fine, have it your way.” He turns from the drop and widens his feet, lowering himself into a fighting stance, flashing me a lupine smile. “Fast it is.”

I loosen my shoulders and shake off the last of my blood-chilling fear, spurred on by the sadistic challenge forging in his sharp eyes. “Finally—”

“But you complain about that sword one more time,” he interrupts, “and l trade it in for something much, much worse.”

I open my mouth, close it again.

He made the same threat two years ago, and I didn’t take him seriously. Later that day, I watched in wide-eyed horror as he flung that sword over my Safety Line, knowing full well I wouldn’t step across and retrieve the damn thing.

The next day, he handed me one twice as loud, almost twice as heavy, and it took me six months to adjust ...

I faux button my lips.