The Young Elites (The Young Elites 1)

Suddenly, two columns of fire explode to either side of me—they roar to the ceiling and rush out in two long lines, imprisoning me in a corridor of fire. I stumble backward a step, then try to focus on Enzo. You did this yesterday; you can do it again now. I pull on the strings of energy I see. A hulking beast of a silhouette begins to rise from the ground.

But I haven’t concentrated for two seconds when Enzo rushes at me. Metal shines in both hands—his daggers are drawn. He lunges for me. My concentration breaks—my illusion vanishes. I throw myself to the ground and roll out of his way. The edges of my boots hit the wall of fire. I wince at the heat, then scramble frantically away.

Enzo’s on me again before I can blink. Metal flashes before my eye. I throw up a hand to protect myself, and the blade slashes a thin, shallow line into my palm. Pain blooms from the wound.

He’s wasting no mercy on me. This is not just an accelerated training session, it’s a lesson.

“Wait—” I call out.

“Get up, little wolf,” he snaps. The heat of the fire reflects off his crimson hair.

I struggle to my feet. My hand leaves a bloody imprint on the ground. The pain and terror in me fuses, giving me the fuel I crave so badly. I pull on my energy, and this time I call forth a wolf of black mist, its eyes gold and its mouth pulled back in a snarl. It charges at Enzo.

Enzo rushes right through it, dispelling it and my concentration in a puff of dark smoke. The threads slip out of my hands and back into the world. I make a grab for them again—the puff of dark smoke starts to shift into the shape of a hooded demon. Enzo makes a slashing motion at me with his hand. Fire erupts before my face. I lose my footing and fall, hitting my back hard on the ground. My lungs struggle for air.

Enzo’s dark robes stop beside me. I look up to see his cold, ruthless expression. “Again,” he commands.

Dante’s words come back to me, but his voice sounds like my father’s. You’ll never master your abilities. Is a mess of black silhouettes and shapes resembling creatures all I can conjure? My anger and fear flood through me again. I drag myself to my feet. I’m past all pretense now—blindly I reach out for the darkness, then raise my hands over my head.

Enzo attacks me again before I can focus my powers. His daggers reflect the firelight. Another cut, this time a small nick on my arm. The sting of it blossoms against my flesh and sends stars bursting across my vision. I duck down and scramble indignantly out of his path. Fear clouds my mind—the threads of energy are all there, glistening strings hovering inside me and all around me—but I can’t focus long enough to grab on to them.

I try again. Silhouettes appear in the air. Again, my concentration breaks. Enzo’s assault is relentless—a blur of motion, knocking me down every single time I struggle to get back up. My hair falls out of its neat bun and strands of it stick against my face.

“Again,” Enzo orders each time I fall.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I try, I really do. But each time, I fail.

Finally, I cry out and dart away from his blades, then turn around and run down the corridor of fire. My mind scatters. I give up trying to call my energy. Ahead of me, I see the cavern entrance, the doors shut tight. Before I can reach them, though, a wall of fire goes up in front of me. I trip, then collapse to the ground. I’m now blocked off on three sides by flames. I whirl around to see Enzo striding toward me, his robes billowing out behind him, his face a portrait of mercilessness. The heat around me burns the edges of my sleeves, blackening them. This time I curl up in a ball, shaking and bewildered. I can’t focus enough to do anything. He stops me every time. How am I supposed to learn if I don’t get a chance to concentrate?

But of course he’s teaching me a lesson. This isn’t a game. This is reality. And when I’m in the middle of a fight, this is what it’ll be like. I whimper, shut my eye, curl up tighter, and try to shrink away from the columns of fire that roar around me. Tears run unbidden down my face.

I sense a figure nearby. When I open my eye, I see Enzo on one knee before me, studying my tear-streaked face with a look of bitter disappointment. It is this look, more than anything, that pains me.

“Broken so easily,” he says with disdain. “You’re not ready after all.” The columns of fire vanish. He gets up and walks past me, his robes brushing over me.

I’m left alone on the cavern floor, crumpled in a heap, unable to control my tears. Strands of my hair fall across my face. No. I’m not broken easily. I will never break. I am going to find a way out of the mess I’ve gotten myself into—I will find a way to untangle myself from the Inquisition’s grasp and finally be free. I look up at his retreating figure through a veil of teary anger. The anger fills me, seeping its blackness into my chest until I can feel it spilling out of every fiber of my body, every energy string pulled so tight, they might break. My strength begins to build. From the corner of my vision, I see my hair shift to a bright silver. I tremble; my hands flatten against the ground, then dig against it like claws. Pain shoots up my one crooked finger.

Vicious black lines start to crawl along the cavern floor. They turn into dozens, then hundreds, then millions of lines, until they fill the entire floor and snake up the walls. Between the dark lines drips blood, mimicking the red streaks on my injured palm. An enormous shadow blankets me. I don’t need to look up to know what I created—black wings, ones so large that they seem to fill the entire length of the cavern, growing out from my back like a pair of phantoms. A low hiss fills the cavern, echoing off the walls.