Sold to the Night Lord - Chapter 97: Chapter 97

Two days have passed—two days in which Eleazar has taken it upon himself to show me every corner of this place, except what lies behind that black door. People still look at me strangely, although some women have smiled at me. That doesn’t exactly make me feel at home immediately, but at least it helps a little with my growing discomfort.
In addition to exploring the camp with Eleazar, I’ve shared my dinners with him, and during the day, when sleep comes for me, he disappears into his side of the tent. The night we returned after he offered to teach me how to handle a weapon, I discovered that he had a tent annex installed to his own, connected by a hallway where a curtain separates us. Now I have a small space to myself, and I haven’t had to sleep in his bed again. I don’t know what material they’re made of, but the tents don’t let a single trace of sunlight in. When the day breaks, Eleazar makes sure his side becomes an impenetrable wall.
Sometimes I find myself unsettled by the thought that only a few meters separate us. I’m not able to feel comfortable among vampires, even though not long ago I was willing to offer my body without looking back to one of them.
It hasn’t been long since I woke up. My hair is still tangled like a bird’s nest. I’m savoring some leftover fruit from last night on my tray when a girl not much older than me appears in my small quarters, holding clothes in her arms.
“Eleazar sent me to bring you this, miss.”
“Please, call me Elara.”
A small smile tugs at her lips and she nods, placing the clothes on my bed.
“Is there anything you need or anything I can do for you?”
“Don’t worry, I have two perfectly capable hands.”
She blushes a little and gestures to leave. She must remember something because she turns back and looks at me again. She has beautiful green eyes.
“Eleazar is waiting for you at the training grounds. If you’d like, I can take you there once you’re dressed.”
“That would be nice.”
The girl nods and steps out so I can change. I go to the bed where she left the clothes and examine them with curiosity. It’s a pair of brown leather pants—sturdy and warm. Alongside them is a loose shirt and a sort of jerkin. To my surprise, when I try everything on, it fits me rather well. In the full-length mirror, I look at myself. With clumsy fingers, I try to tie my hair into a decent updo. After about twenty minutes, I reappear next to the green-eyed girl with my hair in a bun, my new training outfit, and leather boots that reach up to my knees.
It’s very likely I could find my way to the training area by myself—I paid real attention during my walks with Eleazar—but I prefer to walk this place with someone other than him. Eleazar intimidates people too much; some even pretend to tolerate me. Now I can see their real faces. Most avoid looking at me too long, others frown, and very few offer a smile. The usual sounds of physical exertion become louder as we approach—I hear panting, metal clashing against metal, and grunts of effort.
In the middle of all the people sparring with raised weapons stands Eleazar, arms crossed over his chest and brows furrowed, supervising everyone. We approach slowly, and I can hear him giving instructions here and there. The girl stops and lets me walk forward alone. I turn to her.
“You didn’t tell me your name.”
She waves her hand in the air.
“It’s not important.”
I’m about to contradict her, to tell her we’re all important—but it’s too late. She’s already turned around and is running through the camp, lifting the hem of her skirt. With nothing else to do, I approach Eleazar, who senses my presence immediately. His gaze lands on me—those molten gold eyes seem to pierce through me. He scans my body, leaving no inch outside his scrutiny. The others must have noticed, because the sound of clashing metal has considerably died down.
I clear my throat.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, as if he hadn’t just looked over every inch of my body. His voice is deeper than I’m used to hearing.
“I suppose so.”
I shrug.
“I’m glad to hear that. You need to be well-rested for this.”
I agree. He gives me one last glance before starting to walk, trusting I’ll follow. We go to a more open area where different weapons rest on a table.
“Have you ever held one in your hands?” he asks, pointing at them.
I shake my head.
“Then we’ll start with a wooden one. Today we’ll look at your stance and teach you some basic movements.”
I don’t know why, but the idea of holding a weapon in my hands excites me. He hands me a short wooden sword, which I wrap my hands around. I avoid looking at the others, though I can feel their eyes on me. Eleazar places his hands on my waist and turns me to face a distant point.
“Keep your feet shoulder-width apart,” he says near my ear. One of his hands moves to my elbow and raises the arm holding the sword. “You have to grip it firmly, but not overly tight. Your knuckles are white from tension—and this is just a wooden sword. Relax.”
I look at my hand and see he’s right. I’m gripping the hilt too hard, so much that my knuckles hurt. I try to loosen them and ease my grip a bit. When he’s satisfied with how I’m holding the sword, he moves on to correcting my shoulders and torso. When my posture is decent, he stands beside me and draws his own sword from the belt at his waist. Its blade shines so brightly I’m sure it would cut through me effortlessly, like hot butter. The hilt has embedded gemstones and what appear to be tentacles coiled around it as if trying to strangle it. I get lost for a moment in the beauty of the design.
He adopts the same stance as mine, only his head stands well above mine. He performs the movements with precision and elegance, waiting a few seconds for me to imitate him. At first, I’m too clumsy, and he has to correct me more than once. By the time I manage a halfway decent strike, my shoulders are sore and burning from the effort.
“You’re small,” he says.
I make a face.
“Wow, thanks. I thought you hadn’t noticed just by how I have to tilt my head to look up at you.”
My comment makes him laugh.
“You’re small and thin. That could give you a slight advantage against a bigger and heavier opponent,” he huffs. “Let’s not kid ourselves—your chances of winning are low. But with proper training and enough time, we could improve your odds. You could be slippery and fast.”
“Comforting.” I push a strand of hair from my face, exhaling. “Anyway, do you really think I’ll be here that long?”
“You’re here, aren’t you? The time you stay depends on you. I won’t be the one to throw you out.”