"You won't." I'm certain of this in a way I can't explain. "The beast doesn't want to hurt me. Neither do you. And I'm stronger than I was—faster. I want to test it. Test us."
He studies me for a long moment, golden eyes searching my face. Then: "Alright. Training yard. Twenty minutes."
"Make it ten. I'm impatient."
The morning air is crisp and cool, carrying the scent of pine from the Forbidden Forest beyond the castle walls. I'm waiting in the training yard when he arrives, already warmed up, a practice sword balanced in my grip.
He's changed into training leathers that fit him like a second skin, showing off the breadth of his shoulders, the power in his arms. His hair is tied back from his face, and he moves acrossthe packed earth with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate and controlled.
The guards who were sparring in the corner have stopped to stare. Carter catches my eye and raises his eyebrows—a silent question. I shake my head slightly. This is private.
They clear out without being told, leaving us alone in the yard.
Rhystan selects a practice sword from the rack, testing its weight, its balance. The wooden blade looks almost fragile in his grip, his hand large enough to wrap around it twice.
"Rules?" he asks.
"Don't hold back." I settle into my stance, blade raised. "I want to know what you're actually capable of."
"You might regret that."
"Try me."
He moves.
Even expecting it, even ready for it, I barely get my sword up in time. The impact jolts through my arms and into my shoulders, rattling my teeth. He's fast—impossibly fast for someone his size—and strong enough that I feel the blow in my bones.
I grin.
Finally.
I counterattack, driving forward with a combination Carter taught me last week. He blocks the first strike, deflects the second, but I'm faster than I was, faster than I should be, and the third catches him across the ribs with a solid thwack.
"Good," he says, and there's something like approval in his voice. "Again."
We circle each other, trading blows, testing defenses. He's better than Carter—centuries of experience showing in every movement, every decision. But I'm not the feral creature who attacked him in the sacred grove anymore. The contaminationhas remade me into something sharper, something quicker, something that can match him strike for strike.
Our blades meet with a crack that echoes off the stone walls. Neither of us gives ground.
"You're holding back," I accuse, shoving against his blade.
"So are you."
He's right. I've been fighting like I fight Carter—controlled, careful, pulling my strikes so I don't actually hurt him. But Rhystan isn't Carter. Rhystan can take it.
I stop holding back.
The next sequence happens almost too fast to track. Strike, block, counter, spin. My blade whistles toward his throat and he ducks, barely, the wood grazing his jaw. His counterattack catches me in the shoulder hard enough to bruise, and I snarl and press forward, driving him back across the yard.
Our practice swords meet again and the impact splinters both blades.
We freeze, staring at the broken wood in our hands.
"That's never happened before," he says.
"That's because you've never fought me before." I toss aside the useless hilt and grab two more swords from the rack. Throw one to him. "Again."
We're not sparring anymore. We're something closer to dancing—a violent, beautiful dance of strike and counter, advance and retreat. The contamination sings in my blood, making everything sharper, faster, more alive. I can feel him through the bond—muffled but still there—his excitement rising to match mine, his beast purring with satisfaction at finding a worthy opponent.
