Silla shuddered. “It…left something in her.”
“Something?” Rey fought the instinct to charge off to Harpa’s, to discover what was left behind in the woman’s body. But there was something in Silla’s voice that gave him pause.
“I do not know what it was. I was sent away.” Her voice trembled.
Rey strode forward, pulling her to him. Seeing her like this made a chasm of hurt open in his chest. If he could, Rey would take the pain from her and endure it himself. He’d failed to intercept the creature, and he’d failed to help Silla through her struggles over the past days and weeks. Right now, he felt like he couldn’t do anything right.
“You must go to Harpa’s,” she said, her voice muffled against him.
“No,” he said, more forceful than he meant to. But the decision rooted itself deep in his chest. The knowing feeling told him he was needed here tonight. With her. “The creature has struck. I now have seven days to see Harpa.” His hand went to her hair, stroking it gently. “Was it an ugly sight?”
“She died and I…I…” She buried her face in his chest. Rey smoothed his hands over her curls, stumbling for the right words. Inwardly, he cursed himself.
“Why am I here, Rey?”
His hands stilled. It was not what he’d expected her to say. “For safety. To learn from Harpa.”
“I cannot do it,” she whispered, so softly he barely heard it.
“You’ve killed one of the most notorious kommandors in the kingdom. You killed a seasoned assassin, one who bested even me.” Pride swelled in his chest, and Rey hoped he’d at last found the right words. “You can do anything you set your mind to.”
But she pushed him with surprising force. Dragging her hair from her face, the look of pure fire she sent him had Rey frowning. Not, apparently, the right thing to say at all.
Silence stretched out for several moments, until she said, “Spar with me.”
With a nod, Rey fetched his practice sword, and they worked through the motions. She was sluggish and unfocused, but Rey understood that today was less about precision and more about doingsomething. And so, for an hour, he blocked her sloppy attacks and let her gain ground, which he wouldn’t ordinarily allow.
As she lunged at him with an entirely predictable slash, he let her land a blow, knocking the practice sword from his hand.
“I do not want your pity,” she seethed, wiping her sweat-dampened brow.
Rey scowled. “I do not?—”
“Stop letting me win.”
“Very well.” He retrieved his sword, watching her warily. Silla looked like a caged animal, pacing with restless energy.
Setting his jaw, he widened his stance, Silla mirroring his movements. And then, Rey let two decades of practice take hold—the flat of his blade slapping her sword hand, a thrust forward to capture her slender wrist in hand. He wrenched her around until her back was pressed to his chest.
Her scent hit his bloodstream, dizzying his thoughts. Rey tried to still his body’s response to the expanse of her touching him—tried not to note the heave of her chest as her mind caught up.
Lowering his head to the shell of her ear, Rey whispered, “You need to rest, Silla.”
“Stop telling me torest!” Rey’s brows drew together at her outburst. She struggled against him, and he released her. Whirling, she faced him. “I do not need rest. I need to get her.”
Rey’s mind raced to fill the gaps in her words. “Saga.”
Silla retrieved her sword, facing him with those burning eyes. “Again.”
“No,” he growled. She turned away with an irritated huff. “Silla.”
She took an attack position, preparing to run through the sequence once more.
“How long have you been at this, Silla?”
She shrugged.
His eyes narrowed. “How long have you been at this?”
