"Would you like to train with me?" I ask simply. "Combat skills, territory knowledge, basic survival techniques for this climate and terrain."
Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't that. Her eyebrows lift slightly, the first genuine surprise I've seen from her since that first night.
"You want to teach me to fight?"
"I want to give you tools to protect yourself. Whether that's fighting or running or hiding depends on the situation." I cross my arms, trying to look like a teacher rather than a captor offering conditional privileges. "Right now you're completely dependent on our protection, which I know you hate. This would change that."
She studies my face with the intensity of someone trying to detect hidden motivations or trick clauses. "Why?"
The question deserves honesty, even if the full truth is more complicated than I want to examine. "Because you're going crazy trapped in here with nothing to do but worry about things you can't control. Because being able to defend yourself might make this whole situation feel less like imprisonment. And because if something does happen—if the political situation changes or the Stonevein make a move—I want you to have options beyond hoping someone else will protect you."
The last part seems to resonate with her in a way the first two don't. Her posture relaxes fractionally, the defensive hunch of her shoulders easing into something closer to attention.
"What kind of training?"
"Basic blade work, unarmed combat, reading terrain and weather signs. How to move quietly, how to find shelter and water if you're separated from help." I pause, then add the crucial detail: "Outside. Away from the longhouse and the watching eyes."
That gets her attention completely. For the first time since arriving, her expression shows something other than wariness or resignation—actual interest, maybe even anticipation.
"When?" she asks.
"Now, if you want. There's a clearing behind the longhouse that's private enough for training but close enough to be considered safe territory."
She's off the bed and moving toward the door before I finish speaking, her eagerness so obvious that it makes my chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness. When was the last time she had a choice about anything, even something as simple as going outside?
"Lead the way," she says, and there's more life in her voice than I've heard since she stumbled into our celebration.
The clearing I have in mind sits perhaps fifty yards behind the longhouse, ringed by evergreens that provide natural privacyscreens while staying well within the patrol boundaries our guards maintain. It's where I come sometimes when I need space to think or work through problems with physical activity rather than endless mental circles.
Saela steps into the open space and immediately turns a slow circle, taking in the sight lines and escape routes with the automatic assessment of someone who's survived by staying aware of her surroundings. But underneath the habitual vigilance, I catch something else—relief, maybe, or simple pleasure at being under open sky again.
"Better?" I ask.
"Much." She faces me with an expression that's more alert and present than anything I've seen from her indoors. "So what kind of blade work are we talking about? I know the basics of knife fighting, but I've never had formal training."
I draw the practice blade from my belt—dull-edged but properly weighted, designed for learning without bloodshed. Her eyes track the movement with immediate focus, and I catch the slight shift in her stance that suggests she's already thinking about balance and distance.
"Show me what you know," I say, tossing her a matching practice blade.
She catches it without fumbling, her grip falling naturally into a position that's not quite right but not entirely wrong either. Self-taught, but with decent instincts and the kind of practical experience that comes from actually needing to use a weapon for survival.
"Like this?" She demonstrates a basic defensive stance, and I can see the flaws immediately—too much weight on her back foot, guard held too low, elbow positioning that would leave her vulnerable to certain attacks.
"Close. Here—" I move behind her without thinking, my hands covering hers to adjust her grip and position. "Feet widerfor better balance, and bring your guard up to protect the centerline of your body."
The moment my hands touch hers, the instruction dies in my throat. She's warm and solid against my chest, her hair smelling faintly of the pine soap Shae brought her, and suddenly I'm hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The way she fits against my larger frame, the slight tension in her muscles that speaks of someone ready to fight or flee at any moment.
She's beautiful, I realize with the kind of clarity that knocks the breath from your lungs. Not in the polished way of clan women who've never known hunger or fear, but with the lean strength of someone who's earned every breath through determination and cunning. Her gray-green eyes hold depths that speak of intelligence and resilience, and the stubborn set of her jaw suggests a will that won't easily be broken.
Some male would be fortunate to earn her trust, her partnership, her?—
"Is this better?" she asks, and the sound of her voice breaks through my inappropriate thoughts like cold water.
I step back quickly, putting professional distance between us and trying to ignore the way my hands feel empty without her warmth beneath them. "Yes. Much better. Now let's see you move through some basic attacks."
She follows my instructions with the focused attention of someone who understands that skill might mean the difference between life and death. Her movements are economical rather than graceful, functional rather than beautiful, but there's something compelling about watching her learn. She absorbs corrections quickly and doesn't make the same mistake twice, approaching each new technique with the methodical determination of someone building tools for survival.
We work through basic strikes and parries, footwork drills and simple combinations. She's breathing hard within minutes—her conditioning is better than I expected given her recent hardships, but she clearly hasn't had opportunities for sustained physical training. Still, she doesn't complain or ask to rest, pushing through the discomfort with the kind of stubborn endurance that speaks to her character.
