Season of Sacrifice (Blood of Azure Book 1) by Jonathan Michael (ereader that reads to you txt) 📗

hatred for being a Graft or whatever it is I am, hatred for Goose parting ways and not joining me in this impossible extraction, hatred for Ellia kidnapping Jay and making us come here, hatred for Ellia taking advantage of me, hatred for Astor for not giving me a chance to explain before disappearing, hatred for Harris being the root of all my problems, hatred for all my weaknesses, and hatred for…Jaymes. Hatred for Jaymes and her horrible decision to willingly become the Taoiseach’s pawn.

“Argh!” A bellow of fury frantically escapes me as I charge Master Stormwood. My raging fist swings at his head, and he easily dodges it, smacking me in the back of the head lightly in return—one of his I am better than you, and you are weak hits. It is more of a tap than a real blow. He taunts me as he always does, trying to draw out the rage. It’s already here.

I flip around with a swift backhand of my own, but he is quick. He grabs it and twists me around, locking my arm behind me with his other forearm. “You must find yourself. Don’t be afraid,” he whispers. Then he lets go.

I follow up with an elbow into his gut. Cheap shot, but I don’t know how else to best him. I create distance between us. The last time I connected with a blow was a mistake. And it was infinitesimal at best. I’m not a fighter. I don’t know how to beat him. I don’t know why he wants me to beat him. And I don’t know how to find myself. What does that mean?

“Why?” I yell. “Why must I find myself?” I charge him again with several fists, one after the other, precision in every swing. He dismisses all of them. I follow up with a leg to his side, but he catches it and drops me to the ground.

“Because you are weak until you do,” he replies calmly. He lets go.

I hop to my feet and stare him down. We dance in circles. I am weak. I know I’m weak. I’ve always been weak. That’s who I am. Why does he choose to pick on the weak one? There are so many others in this class watching him taunt me. Why can’t they find themselves? Why not choose one of them to taunt? He’s just a damned bully.

“I’m weak!” I admit. Another blast of fury shrouds me, and I charge.

This time when he deflects my attack, he winces. It leaves an open window to a small blow that plants right on his nose. It sends him stumbling back. I follow my attack, my fury not letting me do anything else, and land more blows to his face and his gut. He stands wobbly. I sweep my leg around and connect with the back of his knees, buckling them and dropping him. I kick him in the face on his way to the ground, forcing his body backward in a way it shouldn’t bend and causing his knees to snap as they sit underneath his broken body.

I take a deep breath, realizing Master Stormwood is not going to retaliate. He’s not going to bounce back and knock me on my ass. He is broken. I look around to my classmates. They are all wide-eyed, mouths agape and silent. My eyes fixate on the broken body below me. His bare chest is littered with black imprints. As is his face. It spreads. The rot grows slowly. It consumes his flesh.

“What have I done?” I mutter.

I react impulsively, not knowing what to do. I drop to my knees and straighten out his body, disregarding any pain it might cause him. His colorful locks are spreading over the dirt like poisonous asps fleeing their den. His body is limp, but his eyes still have life. He’s not dead.

I wipe frantically at his chest, trying to remove the spreading rot feeding on his flesh. Of course it doesn’t work. I scratch at it, trying to remove the flesh. That doesn’t work either. It only tears into the loose rot, digging big, gaping claw marks into his chest. What have I done? What have I done? Only Dihkai are capable of degeneration. This isn’t who I am.

I look up to my classmates for advice. Panic has replaced the fury within me. Most are standing agape, and others are fleeing the scene. They’re afraid. They know I’m a Lahyf, and they’ve witnessed the rot escape my hands. They’re all witness to a Graft murdering his master. I am the reason they fear Grafts. I am… I am… I am a Graft. My overdue execution will be just.

I place my hand upon his chest in a hopeless attempt to recede the rot. I close my eyes and focus all my energy into his beating heart. There is too much rot to focus anywhere else.

Thum-thump… thum-thump… thum-thump…

A deep but soft voice speaks out, “You will continue to be weak until you find yourself. You must know who you are…Stone McLarin. Stop hiding.”

The energy I poured into Master Stormwood leaves me fatigued. I press a hand onto the hard sand beneath me to keep my balance. The world spins around me, and I sit on my cheeks. Then fall backward and close my eyes.

“We are done here,” the Master of Combat’s voice proclaims.

I open my eyes, and Master Stormwood is above me, along with Grimry, Jareth, and several of my other classmates. I cannot detect what they are feeling. They all stand over me with blank stares. Where am I? I sit up, placing my palms to the ground. Rough, gritty dirt fills around my fingers. I lie in the middle of the combat circle.

“What happened?” I ask.

“You are no longer fit to take part in my course. You must leave.”