I shouldn't be here, Feyla thought as she stared at the practice arena before her. I don't have the right to be here.

     She fiddled with the hem of her loose tunic dress before letting it drop back to her legging-covered knees. The sun was just now peeking through the windows of the training room's vaulted ceilings. The room was spacious and airy, which was good considering how much sweating was usually going on. Different types of equipment were separated into sections laid out like a grid. Guardsmen could be seen in one corner of the area, slowly making their way through the various training exercises. If she wanted to do this, she would have to hurry. Steeling herself and ignoring the uncomfortable weight on her chest, Feyla marched towards a corner filled with practice dummies. She brushed past the wooden ones filled with the gashes of arrows and swords. The one she was searching for was very specific. Her target soon came into sight, and she stopped in front of one of the dummies. It was white with blue squares on it marking out the pressure points on the neck, chest, and arms. She hesitated for a moment, before reaching out and tapping the forehead of the dummy. White lines sprang to life and made a crisscross pattern on the blue squares.

     How long had it been since she'd last done this?

     Too long, a small, treacherous part of her thought.

     No, she rejected. I stopped for a reason.

     Then why are you here now?

     She didn't answer.

     Feyla crossed her arms, and then slid them further apart until her palms were pressed together. Her hands were trembling so hard that she could barely keep them level with her chest. She spread her feet apart, and breathed deeply in a desperate attempt to calm the panicked pounding of her heart.

     It's not a real person. You're not going to hurt anyone.

     Her hand shot out and jabbed the pressure point in its neck. The lines on it lit up blue, signifying that the subject would have been knocked unconscious.

     Her shoulders relaxed as she let out the breath she was holding. This wasn't so bad.

     She repositioned herself while the dummy reset. Mere seconds after the white lines reappeared, her hands flashed forward again. Greens and blues lit up as she struck the dummy over and over again, slipping back into a familiar rhythm. Unconscious, magic blocked, unconscious, loss of movement, magic blocked, still awake, searing pain-wait.

     She jerked her hands back as a red light covered two of the pressure points.

     I knew it.

     She stared down at her hands and closed them slowly as her developing tears clouded her vision. This was pointless. She was out of practice, but even if she wasn't, well...

     Did you really think you could ever go back after what happened?

     No. She thought, wiping the tears from her eyes.

     She couldn't go back, but she wasn't sure she was happy here either.

*******************************************

     Sedgewick Alverdyne was not happy.

     The fact that this was hardly an uncommon occurrence, did nothing to ease his irritation.

     Gates, my back hurts, he thought, easing himself up from his bed. Tingles of discomfort shot their way through the rest of him, setting off pain receptors like crackles in a fire. And it seems to have invited the rest of me to join in.

     Cringing slightly, he pulled himself out of bed, and reached towards his nightstand for his glasses and his pocket watch. After pushing his glasses over his sleep-crusted eyes, he flipped open his watch.

     Now what unholy hour did I wake to this time...

     "Seven thirty-two. Can't a man wake at a normal hour for once in his- SEVEN THIRTY-TWO!" Sedgewick bolted out of bed, nearly tripping over his cat in the process. He snatched his trousers off the ground, and shoved his legs in, desperately praying to the Creator that he had mixed up the days of the week again.

     A knock sounded on his door, signifying that his answer was no.

     "Sedgewick," Feyla's muffled voice came through the door. "Are you awake?"

     "Yes!" he called out while jerking his undershirt on. "Been up for hours!" He tugged it semi-straight and moved to open the door.

     "Hullo, Feyla."

     "Hi! Good...morning?" she said, her chipper voice fading as she caught sight of him. "Oh my, you look awful."

     His brow furrowed and he leaned against the door frame. "Thank you for your insightful observations, Feyla. They're very helpful. Truly the bright spot of my mornings."

     An embarrassed flush covered her cheeks. "Sorry... But seriously, what happened? You look like you were slammed into a wall while being dragged behind a horse."

     He sighed, and gestured for her to come in. "You're half right, at least."

     "Did the witches' guild give you that much trouble? You usually handle those pretty easily," she said while making her way towards the small kitchen.

     He closed the door and followed her. "There were...mitigating circumstances."

     "I'm wait-ing!" she said in a singsong voice as she pulled a loaf of bread out of a nearby cabinet.

     He huffed, but in truth, needed little encouragement. "You should have seen her, Feyla," he said, speaking faster as he launched into his area of expertise. "Her skill was abysmal; her technique was nonexistent! I cannot remember the last time I fought such a joke of a sorceress."

     "And?"

     "And yet she struck me!" he said, slamming the door of the metal stove he'd open. He absent-mindedly waved his hand to ignite the wood before crossing his arms and slouching against the counter near Feyla. "Someone with her apparent skill level should not have been able to hide that spell's presence."

     Feyla looked up from the bread she was buttering. Her eyes held a hard look that he'd seen multiple times before.

     Gates, he thought.

     "Sedgewick, did you have the palace healer examine you when you got back?"

     He opened his mouth to come up with an excuse or a white lie, but she kept giving him that look and all his ideas vanished.

     She brandished the bread knife and pointed it at him in a manner that might have been threatening if it had come from someone other than a short, curvy, blonde woman.

     "Sit," she said, gesturing with her knife towards a chair.

     He rolled his eyes, but sat himself down. "You're overreacting. I've been hit before, and if something was wrong then I would have felt it in my magic essence."

     She sat down her knife and pulled up a chair beside him. "You just didn't want it on the records that you got hit."

     His silence confirmed her statement.

     She sighed. "Where did it hit you?"

     "It was-" He paused, thinking. "I'm not quite certain. There was just pain," He waved his hand. "Everywhere."

     "Sedgewick,"

     He turned towards her and she held his gaze, her eyes focused and analytical, as if she was examining every part of him. He shifted uncomfortably.

     "Take your shirt off,"

     "What?!" he sputtered, suddenly longing for the staring.

     "Don't give me that look! You implied you were slammed into the walls, you don't know where the spell hit you, and you didn't go to the palace healer. Now, either let me examine you, or I'm dragging you over there right now!" She jumped up from her seat and placed her hands on her hips.

     He scowled at her, but slowly undid the hooks in the front of his shirt and shrugged it off.

     Her lips pursed as she caught sight of the multitude of bumps and bruises scattered across his back and torso. "You promised you'd be careful."

     "It wasn't a promise; it was an acknowledgement of a request. One that I was unfortunately unable to accomplish."

     She shook her head and began examining him.

He looked straight ahead and tried to ignore the feeling of her warm, soft hands as she checked his spine, ribs, and neck for injuries. He shuddered as a hot-cold tingle went through his skin once she began using her magic to sooth some of the aching. Her touch lingered over the scar on his back, and he was half-tempted to fall out of the chair and jerk his shirt back on. She was completely professional about it, yet he could barely contain a sigh of relief once she was done.

     Feyla shook her head, astonished. "I don't know how you managed it, but there doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with you other than some nasty bruises. It's a good thing you were shielding your back, because that's probably the only reason it's not hurting enough to keep you in bed. I've lessened some of the aches, but you should probably have your essence checked."

     "I'll do it later," he said, slipping his shirt back over his scar as quickly as possible. "I thought you came over here to have breakfast."

     "Which you were so very prepared for Mr. I've-Been-Up-For-Hours." She grinned and offered him her hand.

     He took it and slowly rose from his seat. "I see how it is. You scold me about not sleeping enough, and then when I attempt to remedy that, you tease me. That's rather cruel of you, Feyla." A small smile played at the edges of his mouth as they locked eyes. It was then that he finally registered her slightly strange attire. Why was Feyla Everbloom, she of flattering dresses and perfectly styled hair, wearing a tunic dress and leggings? He hadn't seen her in something like that since--Oh.

     Oh, gates, he thought.

     "Stop by the arena this morning?" he asked while attempting to appear as casual as possible.

     Her shoulders sagged ever-so-slightly. "I did."

     "Productive visit?"

     "Informative."

     "Think you'll be needing any addition trip?"

     She shook her head and handed him the pan of uncooked toast. "No, no, I don't think so."

     He turned towards the oven, partially to put the toast in, and partially to hide his look of relief. It's not like he needed her to stay, but...good help was just so hard to find. He opened the oven, careful to avoid the--

     Completely nonexistent flames.

     "I thought you lit the stove."

     A hard lump settled in his throat and a flutter of panic seized his chest. "I did."

     "Did it go out?" she asked.

     Sedgewick barely registered what she said. Thought and theories flickered by, too quick for him to pin down. The slight panic in his chest continued to build with each passing second, slowly crushing him under its weight. He could blame this on simple absent-mindedness, but he knew better. Deluding himself was pointless. He placed the pan back on the counter, his hand shaking so hard it was a wonder he didn't drop it. "I need to check something," he said, his voice breathless and soft.

     "Sedgewick?" Feyla reached out her hand to touch his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

     He jerked away from her hand, and bolted out the door, grabbing his coat on the way out.

     "Sedgewick!" Feyla cried out after him. "What's wrong?! You don't even have your over-shirt on! OR YOUR BOOTS!" She stood at the doorway, staring after him as he ignored her shouting. She clenched her hair and let out an exasperated cry. "I swear, I have to do everything," said Feyla, grabbing up what she thought he needed before following him out the door, and leaving the uncooked toast behind, forgotten, and dejected.

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Author's Note:

Hello everyone!  I'd like to thank all of you who have been reading this.  It's so great to see people liking it!  I usually like to keep one chapter ahead of posting, so I was thinking that I could post a one-line "teaser" from the next chapter at the end of each one.  What do you guys and gals think?

Please don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe!  Oh, wait.  That's Youtube.  Umm...  Don't forget to vote, comment, and follow!

Excerpt from Chapter Six:   I'm never wrong. Not about things like this.