After a pause, Alora followed, surveying the training yard. The braziers were unlit, the second-floor gallery that circled the entire width of the shaft empty. No one else was there but them. “What is this place?”
“The combat arena.”
“I had sparred with the others in the training hall,indoors. Why do you want to train me yourself today?”
He had no need to train her. That, too, was an excuse.
It was due in part to assure himself that she was still whole, that she hadn’t been torn away like everything else he’d ever touched. He needed her anger, her defiance, anything that wasn’t the terrified look she’d given him in the Gate chamber.
And he had another reason.
“Before I allow you to wander the mountain freely, prove to me that you can defend yourself first.” Rune nodded toward another door. “Go change. I will wait for you.”
The last words came out heavier than he intended, and Alora paused, meeting his gaze for a breath before slipping into the adjoining chamber.
She left the Vareth behind.
It sat on its haunches at Rune’s feet, looking up at him with cool, slitted eyes.
He frowned. “You must let me do this. She will not be in danger.”
The creature replied with a shortprrt. A sound so perfectly dismissive it might as well have been a warning: the one in danger here would not be her.
Rune smiled, thrilled at the possibility.
If Alora was as powerful as he suspected, then the combat arena was the perfect place.
He had carved it for himself once, centuries ago, when war had still given him purpose. Stone pillars rose like ribs around the ring, and the black sand shimmered faintly with crushed volcanic rock. The mountain breathed through the fissures, every inhale a low tremor underfoot. And the walls were fortified to withstand the wrath of gods.
Rune drew a steadying breath. “Yes, this place will do.”
Alora stepped beside him, her hand brushing the pommel of a sword. Not a training one. She had braided her hair up into a coronet. The tension in her shoulders was as taut as a bowstring.
“For what?” she asked, an edge of unease threading through her voice.
“To show me what you’ve learned.”
A shadow of humor flickered across her mouth, quick and unwilling. She almost smiled. Almost.
“Nervous?” Rune asked.
Alora rolled her eyes. “Why would I be nervous? You vowed to never harm me.”
Even with her air of confidence, she didn’t know how deeply he could sense her emotions. Her nerves fluttered in his chest like trapped batwings. He watched her stride for the platform, admiring the way the tight leather hugged every curve.
“Perhaps Calla has failed to keep you informed.” Alora’s blade gleamed as she drew it free. “I move nearly as swiftly as she does. Hadeon is a ruthless teacher.”
Rune’s mouth curved. “Then I expect a merciless performance.”
He reached to unfasten the clasp of his cloak, letting it fall aside. The air stirred around him, heavy with the scent of iron and old magic.
Her lips parted when he exposed his torso to the air, her gaze visually mapping the markings on his chest, before falling on the hard ridges of his abdomen. Her stare lingered like smoke on his skin.
“Before you lift that sword, stretch first,” he said. “It would be inconvenient if you rolled an ankle before I could humble you.”
Alora’s glare was immediate.
She set the sword aside and loosened her shoulders, pulling each arm across her chest tightly. Then she placed a leg on the railing, reaching for her toes, but her movements were stiff and too measured.
