Well, about this, anyway.
“I don’t know if I can do it.” Her voice shook as she stared at the blade’s edge. “How can I deliver death, when I’ve sworn to preserve life?”
Brand made a low sound, not quite a sigh. “Is your own life less worthy of preservation?”
She snapped her gaze to his, unable to form a response. Why did these Demons insist on asking her questions she had no answer to?
He ran his fingers over hers again, where they were clenched, white-knuckled against the dagger’s handle. “We…I… am not asking you to kill without cause. These lessons are to help you learn the necessary skills to keep yourself safe, should there be no one else to do so. Nothing more.”
And wasn’t that exactly what she wanted, to feel like magic was not her only course of action?
“Okay,” she whispered. “Alright. Yes. I… I can do that.”
“I know.” He gifted her with a softer smile, then looked between them a few times. “Hmm. It seems we favor opposite hands. That’ll make this much easier.”
He thrust his arm to the side and golden light swirled up his palm from outstretched fingertips. With a radiant flash, a dagger appeared in his grip.
Lunara gasped, flinching backwards. “How?”
An image of Solyrian graced the bronze hilt, shimmering, its handle like two of the sunstar’s waving rays.
“Only the Realm Ruler and Blessed Imperial have this particular ability.” Brand turned his wrist, light catching on characters she couldn’t decipher running down the center of the blade. “A gift from the Sisters, perhaps.”
“It’s beautiful.” She moved to touch it, but stopped herself just shy of contact. “Is it only this you can conjure?”
Brand flipped the dagger in his hand and closed the distance, dragging the handle along her palm. It was impossibly warm, almost burning, raw power jumping between it and her.
“I can call any weapon I desire. My preference in battle is a greatsword. Lyriat is a dual sword-wielder, which he likes to remind me of. Often.”
Lunara giggled. “I find that very easy to believe.”
Brand bit his lip, as if to stop his answering laughter. She wanted to tell him to let it free—to let her bask in the sound of it—but he blinked and it was gone, his face grim. Serious.
He took a single step away and widened his stance. “I want you to mirror me,” he said, voice low. “Do as I do.”
The rest of the world bled away as Lunara nodded, and they began.
“Don’t flingyour blade and lock up when you extend it.”
Brand’s rough fingers ran up her forearm, beneath the wide sleeve of her tunic, and dipped into the crook of her elbow.
“You need to keep this joint engaged, strong. Strength starts up here.”
He squeezed her shoulder with his other hand, then drew a firm line down her bicep.
“These muscles support the ones lower, and so on. Being loose does not mean being out of control. Your actions need to be smooth but secure.”
He pressed himself against her back and wrapped his hand around hers where it held the dagger. “Move with me, feel where I start and stop. Across yourself”—Bending around her, he curled her arm in front of her body—“and out. Again.”
They rocked back and forth like that as he murmured instructions, slicing the blade at an imaginary enemy.
Lunara absorbed none of it.
Just like she hadn’t comprehended the downward slashes, or the reverse grip. Not even the proper way to retrieve the blade from the belt he’d given her to wear—both while they practiced and once they were in Thodelebor.
Bleeding fucking moons. How was she supposed to focus when every part of his massive, unyielding body was aligned with hers, shifting in tandem, cradling her softness against himself?
The little touches. The gravelly cadence of his voice as he patiently instructed her. The way his auburn hair sometimes fluttered out to mix with hers, tickling her face. The sight of his powerful limbs, flexing and stretching with perfect fluidity.
