"Then I dissolve." I look back at the pool where Yorika has rolled onto her side, hand tightening on an invisible weapon in her dreams. "But forcing it would break her mind. The bond requires willing participation."
"She wants you dead."
"She wants someone dead. Her focused rage is a sharp, metallic tang I can almost taste. But I don't think it's me she's truly after."
Mikaere goes still. "You think she's hunting the Collector?"
"I think she's hunting someone. The rage is too focused, too personal. This isn't a contract. It's a vendetta."
"If she learns you've been hunting him too."
"She won't believe me. Not yet. Trust takes time."
"Time you don't have."
Another tremor. Smaller but sharp, like something inside me tearing. Mikaere takes an involuntary step forward before stopping himself.
"The training room," I say. "Bring her there after she wakes. I want to see how she fights."
"Master?"
"I want to see how she fights. Really fights."
"That seems... unwise."
"Everything about this is unwise. But wisdom hasn't worked. Perhaps foolishness will yield better results."
He bows and leaves. I return to watching Yorika, who's now awake but pretending otherwise. Smart. She's listening to the realm's sounds, cataloging patterns, learning rhythms. I feel her mind working: focused, analytical, never resting.
But there's something else too. When she shifts on the bed, testing her body's readiness, I catch a flash of something.
A dream, perhaps. Or a memory. Shadow and silver intertwined, her body arching beneath something dark and vast.The image is gone before I can grasp it fully, but it leaves an echo of heat that has nothing to do with anger.
She sits up finally, stretches carefully. Each movement tests her body's readiness while appearing casual. She's performed this routine a thousand times in hostile territory.
The door opens at my mental command. She spins toward it, already reaching for her knife, then stops when no one enters.
"The training room," I say through the shadows. My voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. "Mikaere will escort you."
She doesn't jump at the disembodied voice. Another person would have. Instead, she stands slowly, adjusts her clothes, and walks through the door like she has a choice in the matter.
I dissolve from the study and rematerialize in the training room's observation shadow. Mikaere is already there, standing beside racks of weapons from a hundred dead civilizations.
Yorika enters and immediately catalogs exits (three), weapons (too many to count), and threats (primarily Mikaere). Her eyes linger on a blade from the Third Age of Kellos; she recognizes quality even in unfamiliar forms.
"Choose," I say, stepping from the shadows.
She doesn't startle, but her pulse quickens. Not fear. Something else. My proximity affects her in ways she’s fighting hard to ignore.
"Choose what?" Her voice is steady.
"A weapon. Show me how you fight."
"Why?"
"Because I'm curious. Whether you're worth what I paid for you."
The insult lands as intended. A muscle feathers in her cheek, a subtle sign of her rising pride. She moves to the weapons, fingers trailing over hilts and handles with a lover's touch. She selects a pair of curved blades, not the flashiest or most obviously deadly, but perfectly balanced. Smart.
