When Tritus had finished skinning the doe and curing the meat, he tidied the area before laying his fur bedroll down beside the fire. But even though he was exhausted, he couldn’t sleep. He awaited his mate’s return. And when the Goddess of Winter entered hours later, on the cusp of dawn, he didn’t question her, didn’t even make a sound as she stumbled onto her bedroll without a single glance toward him.
10
Brydie
A month passed in a blur, each day coalescing into the other, the only subtle change being the weather. I’d arrived in Scotland at the beginning of winter, five days after Nora had died on Samhain.
Each day had become colder, the snow gradually creeping down the peaks of the Cairngorms. I didn’t have time to appreciate the beauty that unfolded in the landscape around me; I barely comprehended the gray skies and freezing temperatures—I was too tired to care. My days were spent being relentlessly drilled in punishing sessions that followed the same pattern day in, day out.
When the first fingers of dawn graced the sky, and the air was chill and heavy, Gage would pull me from bed and push me ruthlessly on a run over the well-worn trails in the forest surrounding the Estate. He’d drag me breathless and gasping to the kitchen where I’d be ordered to eat my fill for breakfast before he then proceeded to teach me—or rather pummel me—to fight and defend myself. Then, battered and bruised, when the sun was at its apex, we’d stop for lunch.
The afternoons were reserved for Druidry.
Out of my daily schedule, the run was the least intimidating. The self-defense training bruised my body and shattered all preconceptions of my capabilities, but it was the Druidic training that crushed me. Those sessions were the worst. They questioned my abilities, my self-worth, my heritage, and whether the prophecy had a lick of truth to it.
That first training session with Gage should have prepared me for what was to come during that month, for it illustrated that he was not averse to hurting me and would not hold anything back, no matter if it broke bones or produced blood. I was forced to twist, roll, jab, kick, fight, and run for my life. Those sessions were torture, physically, and emotionally.
“You’re too exposed on the right,” Gage would say before aiming a kick at my ribs.
“Your feet aren’t wide enough,” he’d sneer before I received a punch to the gut.
“Eyes on me at all times,” he’d repeat, just before he’d jab a sharp punt to my nose.
A week in, after he’d delivered a vicious kick to my ribs, I’d ground out, “Why? Why this way? Aside from being a sadistic bastard, why the need to physically hurt me?”
Those blue eyes had hardened on mine, no give in them at all. “Prophecies are born from devastation and loss. They guide every player’s actions, and I am no exception.” His lips firmed into a hard line, and I witnessed a hint of self-derision in his expression as he added, “No one has the strength to fight prophecy’s power, whether they believe in the actions they are forced to undertake or not.”
I froze at that comment. Was he saying that prophecy drove his actions? Made him behave this way? But before I could give voice to those questions, his next words confirmed that theory.
“Prophecy drives me to ensure that you succeed within the shortest amount of time possible,” he’d ground out softly. “And prophecy dictates that pain is the biggest motivator—not hope, not guilt, but pain. It’s also been proven the most efficient way to learn quickly.”
Gritting my teeth, I fought back the curses because, after that comment, I’d known there was no point; he wouldn’t listen. Nor was I certain whether he was capable of caring what I thought. Then, there was also that small part of me that believed I needed this treatment—that I needed this brutal push to succeed because I knew I was weak, and not just physically, but mentally too.
But if prophecy dictated Gage’s actions, that didn’t excuse his emotions. Because even though I felt that prickle of foreboding hovering over my own shoulders, I knew I could still feel, that I was in complete control of my emotions. This realization was profound because it meant that Gage chose not to invest emotionally in this crusade. He chose to be aloof, abrupt, and cutting. He chose to make no effort to ensure this experience was bearable—no effort to make friends. He was a bastard in the real sense of the word.
How was I meant to succeed in this task if my Guardian did not emotionally support me?
At that moment, I knew one thing. I hated Gage with a passion. From then on, anger became my friend, fueling my movements, helping me to push through the pain and the humiliation. He will not beat me. I repeated the mantra after every blow, every taunting comment, fueling a fire reserved solely for him.
Because I saw him for ten hours a day, the animosity I held toward Gage was all-consuming. All I could see was him, all I could feel was him, and all I could smell was him—that sharp scent of woodsmoke and forged steel.
When I was finally free at the end of the day, when I lay on my bed, exhausted and spent, my mind would replay all those moments of torture, all those snide remarks. Stubbornness would rear its ugly head, and I would clamor against the unfairness of it all. He made me want to fight back, to show him that he was wrong about me, that I had what it took to follow through with what destiny had in store. The biggest promise I made to myself was that I would never break down in front of him, never show him how much he affected me—physically and emotionally.
The only hours I had to myself were those reserved between dinner and bed, and at first, I spent those few hours exploring the castle. It was huge, comprising three floors with countless corridors and rooms. The ground floor accommodated all the main rooms, including the kitchen, dining room, library, and billiard room. Whereas the second and third floors were mainly residential suites, most of them vacant as only McKenzie, Aiden, Gage, and I stayed at the Estate. Ian also used one of them on the weekend, when he wasn’t in Perth.
The third floor was a mystery as most of the doors were locked. I asked McKenzie what was in those rooms once, but she’d shrugged and said in passing that it was more of the same. But there was something in the manner of her reply that was off, and I was determined to investigate further when I had the chance.
As the days wore on, I noticed incremental changes. I was becoming quicker, stronger, and more agile than I’d ever been. I could feel the results. My breath came easier, and I no longer struggled to run ten kilometers. Physically, my body had also changed—it was leaner, harder. I could see it in my face when I looked in the mirror.
Even my sparring had improved. I could manage thirty seconds on my feet before Gage beat me down. He was fast and incredibly agile, a blur of movement. I knew he fought to pull his punches, but even then, they still floored me.
The constant physical activity was burning calories quicker than I could make them. As a result, I had to eat more often than usual. Gage was always one step ahead, thrusting a protein or chocolate bar into my hands and ordering me to “Eat!” before I’d even realized I craved the sustenance.
Gage always seemed to intuitively know when I’d had enough and couldn’t physically or mentally take any more. With a jerk of his head, he would order me to sit down on the bench and make sure I took my fill of food and water while he silently healed me. I witnessed a sliver of emotion then, saw it in the shift of his eyes, the clenching of his jaw. It was a tell—a confirmation that he was repulsed by his actions, at how he was forced to train me.