A smile. A real one.
I blink, momentarily forgetting the ache in my back. “The Warlord smiles. Who knew?”
His amusement lingers. “I enjoy watching you improve,” he says.
I roll my eyes, pushing myself the rest of the way up. “That makes one of us.”
Thane extends a hand down to me, still measuring.
I hesitate for half a second—just long enough to remind myself that I’ll probably end up on the ground again soon—before gripping his forearm.
His hand is warm, steady, calloused from years of wielding weapons. He pulls me up with effortless strength, like helping me stand is no different from lifting a blade. His cedar-smokey aroma drifts to me.
My eyes linger on his arm a moment too long.
For all the Elemental gods—I need to shake this off!
I shake out shoulders, already feeling the soreness creeping in.
“Again?” I ask dryly.
His lips twitch again, almost another smile. “Again,” he says.
Each time, I get a little closer. A little faster. A little more fluid. Until, finally, I guide the motion away, redirecting his force instead of trying to stop it. And for the first time, Thane stumbles. Barely more than a shift in his footing.
But I see it. And so does he. I blink at him, breathing hard, waiting for his reaction.
“Good,” he says. “Again.”
This time, I don’t argue.
A few days later, I’m sparring with Jarek, sweat stinging my eyes as I block another strike.
Two weeks ago, Thane finally decided I was skilled enough to start training with the other instructors and warriors. Since then, I’ve rotated through different sparring partners, learning their styles, their strengths, their tells. Even Lyra and I have faced off a few times, though those matches usually resulted in more laughter than bruises.
Obviously, I still train with Thane daily. Because while I might be good enough to spar with the others, apparently I’m still a special project he can’t quite trust to anyone else.
Jarek stands in the center of the ring, shifting his weight from foot to foot—a fighter always in motion. His usual smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. He’s testing me before the fight even begins.
I tighten my grip on the blunted training knife, adjusting the angle in my palm.
He lifts one hand, wiggling his fingers, murmuring the protective enchantments under his breath. A faint shimmer flickers over his skin, the only magics allowed in this room—just enough to keep our blows from cutting too deep, but not enough to dull the force behind them.
The training hall hums with quiet focus. Warriors watch from the benches—some sharpening blades, others just observing.
Jarek blows out a breath. Then he lunges.
I sidestep cleanly, my training and instincts taking over. His blade swipes past my ribs, just missing. He follows up immediately. A second strike, angled toward my shoulder. Icatch it with my forearm, deflecting him wide. My muscles absorb the impact, a dull ache buzzing up my arm.
Jarek presses forward. His blade comes fast—low, then high, feinting left before slashing right. I block the first two, but the third—I see it too late. The tip of his knife taps against my ribs.
A kill shot.
I swallow the frustration and step back, resetting my stance.
He expects me to hesitate. I don’t.
I step in, cutting off his momentum. Jab. Feint. Slash. I strike toward his side, not to win, but to force him back. And it works.
