I blink, realizing my grip is tight on the blade. My stance still coiled—like I’m waiting for another strike. Heat creeps up my neck.
“Sorry,” I mutter, shifting back, loosening my grip. “Guess I got a little carried away.”
Taila smirks, rolling out her shoulder. “A little?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling sheepish. “I’ll make it up to you next round.”
She snorts. “You can make it up to me by not imagining someone else’s face while you’re fighting me.”
I groan, rolling my eyes. “Not my fault noble people are so insufferable.” I jerk my chin toward the door. “All that assessing, all those carefully chosen words. Just say what you mean, godsdammit.”
Taila raises her brows, a playful glint in her eyes. “And miss out on the subtle art of manipulation?”
“Yes, actually,” I scowl.
She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re in for a long few days, Spiritborn.”
I roll out my wrists, forcing focus—even as my skin still tingles where he touched me.
From across the mats, Lyra’s voice carries. “Did the Warlord just flirt? I think he did. Someone please confirm.”
Darius snorts. “No, I think he just gave an order in the most unnecessarily attractive way possible.”
I ignore them. Or try to. But I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll be at dinner.
The sun dips low, golden light streaming through the high-set windows, stretching shadows across the barracks floor. Lyra andTaila tear through my things like determined scavengers, rifling through the trunks and shelves, pulling out battle-worn tunics and sweat-stained shirts with increasing frustration.
The problem? We’re warriors. We don’t own elegant evening wear.
And yet—the Hales are nobles, and this is a formal dinner. Or at least formal enough to require something better than bloodstained leathers and singed tunics.
Lyra plops down beside me, holding up a deep red tunic, inspecting it with the concentration of a war strategist. “Okay, but this one could work. It’s—” she flips it around, frowning at a burn mark near the hem, “—slightly singed, but in a fashionable way.”
Taila pulls out a deep navy long-sleeved shirt from her own things, less damaged but entirely uninspiring. “Here. Take this. It’s the best I’ve got.”
I eye it, exhaling slowly. “Fine. But if Thane or any of his men make a comment about this, I’m setting something on fire.”
“Excellent.” Lyra spreads her arms like a victorious general. “We are officially underwhelmingly prepared for dinner.”
Taila snorts.
Before I can respond, a voice interrupts the chaos. “You know, if you’re going to suffer through a noble dinner, you might as well do it properly.”
I glance toward the doorway, finding Nessa, a soldier from Air Clan, leaning against the frame, watching us with mild amusement.
Lyra spins, hands on her hips. “Oh? And you have some grand alternative to our battle-worn couture?”
Nessa raises a brow, then lifts something draped over her arm. A dress. We go silent.
It’s simple—elegant in its restraint. A deep, stormy blue, with subtle silver stitching along the cuffs and neckline, fittedat the waist and flowing to the ankles. Not extravagant, but unmistakably feminine.
Lyra blinks. Taila lifts her brows. I just stare.
Nessa steps forward, holding out the dress.
Lyra claps her hands together, grinning. “Oh, I love this.”
Taila nudges me. “Problem solved—you don’t have to wear a burnt tunic, and we get to watch Thane forget how words work for at least three seconds.”
