He nods.
“I’m also a warning, aren’t I. I’m not Daemari, I’m not worthy. I’m not enough.” He nods and I blow out a breath. “Great. Love that for me.”
He says nothing.
But his jaw clenches again, and I see it—anger. Quiet, controlled. But there.
It’s not for me.
It’s for them.
“So they want to humiliate me,” I mutter, “but you’re still teaching me.”
His gaze sharpens.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s no honor in letting someone be unprepared. Not if I can help it.”
He says it so plainly. Like it’s just a fact, but I feel it like a stone to the chest. I nod, throat tight and he steps closer. We don’t touch, but we could. And he feels it too. I know he does.
We pause to drink water, sitting against the low wall near the training ring. I press the bottle to my lips and glance at him over the rim. He’s silent again, the way he always is after sparring—watching me, like he’s measuring not just what I do, but how I think.
“You’ve stopped bracing,” he says.
“For what?”
“For pain.”
I consider that.
He’s right. I used to tense every time he moved, every time he corrected me, expecting a hit or a harsh word or something cold. But now…
Now I just move.
“I trust you,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words hang in the air like an unsheathed blade. Caziel doesn’t flinch. But he doesn’t speak either. His gaze shifts toward mine—steady, unreadable.
I flush. “That wasn’t a declaration or anything. Just an observation.”
“You’re allowed to trust me,” he says. “If I’ve earned it.”
I blink. That’s more generous than I expected.
“Do you think you have?” I ask, trying for lightness.
He doesn’t answer right away. “I hope I’m trying in the right ways.”
It hits something in me I didn’t know was tender. I exhale slowly, rolling my bottle between my palms.
“I don’t usually do this.”
“Train?”
“Trust.”
