I press forward, blade flashing in the golden light streaming through the high windows. Taila reacts instantly, her stanceadjusting, eyes narrowing.
The training hall blurs—Elaris’ voice, noble murmurs, steel on steel. All I can think about is the way Evelyne is touching him . . . and the way Thane isn’t moving away.
Fine.
I tighten my grip on the blade, the hilt slick with sweat, exhaling slowly as I reset my stance. My body burns from exertion. My breath still comes fast from the last bout—but I push it aside. Across from me, Taila waits, adjusting her grip, her tunic darkened at the collar, damp from sweat.
Afternoon sun streams through the high windows, cutting through dust motes, casting long golden streaks across the mats. The room smells of leather, sweat, and metal—familiar, grounding.
I shake out my arms, ready to spar again, when I feel it.
A presence.
Taila notices first. Her stance shifts, her focus flicking past me. I follow her gaze, turning, and find Thane striding toward us. His presence is a gravity all its own, pulling the air tight, drawing focus without effort.
He doesn’t stop at the edge of the mat, but rather, keeps walking right into our space.
I go still at the sharp, undeniable awareness of him.
Taila straightens slightly, blade lowering in question. “Good afternoon, Warlord.”
Thane glances at her briefly. “Excuse me, Taila.”
She blinks but nods, stepping back without a word. Then, he turns to me and leans in.
Heat and sweat cling to my skin. Muscles still taut, adrenaline still humming—and now this. His heat brushes against my skin, his breath warm at my ear.
My pulse skips, flutters—useless. His hand lifts—light, deliberate. Fingertips graze my elbow, resting there—electric.
And then, in a voice meant only for me—low, smooth, edged with amusement—”You’ve been invited to dinner.”
I blink, head tilting slightly—caught between curiosity and the pulse stuttering in my chest.
He lingers, just enough to keep my breath shallow. Then, pulls back to meet my gaze. His expression is calm, unreadable—except for the teasing glint in his smoke-gray eyes.
I don’t answer right away and Thane notices. A smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“Lord Hale and his sister seem eager to meet the Spiritborn.”
There it is again—that name. From his lips this time. A quiet heat coils in my chest, but I school my face into stillness.
Taila wisely stays silent, but she sees it; she sees the shift in my breath and the way Thane stands just close enough to make a point. Over Thane’s shoulder, I catch her raised brows, lips pressed tight to hide her smile.
From the next sparring mat, Lyra’s cut towards me, sharp-eyed and knowing. She and Darius slow their sparring match, watching me with way too much eagerness.
When I finally speak, my voice is even. Controlled. “Is that an order, Warlord?”
Thane exhales a quiet huff of amusement. Then, without moving his hand from my elbow—without pulling away just yet—he tilts his head, leaning in once more. And murmurs, just for me:
“No. But I’d like it if you came.”
Then, finally, he lets go and steps back. His face is composed—like he didn’t just make my heart beat faster than it did during the sparring match.
Thane turns away, heading back toward the nobles, his strides unhurried. Voices pick up again as they exit the training hall, their presence leaving the room lighter in their wake.
The moment the doors close behind them, Taila exhalesslowly, shaking her head.
“Well, that was interesting.” Her tone is amused, but there’s something knowing in her gaze. “Should I be worried about getting caught in the crossfire?”
