Training becomes my life.
Every morning starts with meditation—sitting cross-legged in a stone chamber while Auren’s cold voice guides me through breathing exercises designed to separate emotion from power. It’s boring as hell, but it works. Sort of. I still flare when I get frustrated, but now the flares are smaller. More contained. Progress, if you squint.
“Emotion feeds fire,” Auren explains during our third session, circling me with the detached interest of a scientist studying a particularly stubborn specimen. “Fire-Bringers channel raw feeling into flame. The stronger the emotion, the stronger the fire. You must learn to feel without burning.”
“That’s like telling someone to breathe without using oxygen.”
“Difficult,” he agrees. “Not impossible. You felt strong emotion during the Relic battle—rage, fear, love. You channeled all of it into focused power rather than random destruction. You’ve done it once. You can do it again.”
“I was dying. That tends to focus the mind.”
“Then we simulate dying conditions.”
I stare at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Auren doesn’t joke. Auren doesn’t even smile. He just studies me with those calculating gold eyes and says, “Combat training begins this afternoon.”
Combat training turns out to be exactly as awful as it sounds.
Drayke comes at me with practice swords, not holding back, forcing me to channel flame while simultaneously dodging strikes that would break bones if they landed. Every time I losefocus—every time the fire wavers or flares wrong—he’s there with a blade at my throat or a boot behind my knee.
“Dead,” he says flatly, helping me up from the ground for the fifteenth time. “Again.”
“I hate this.”
“I know.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “Again.”
By the end of the first week, I’m covered in bruises, my fire control has improved by approximately ten percent, and I’ve developed a burning hatred for the phrase “again” that rivals my hatred for ancient artifacts.
Drayke finds me in our chambers that night, soaking in a massive stone tub filled with steaming water. He doesn’t ask permission—just strips off his shirt and climbs in behind me, pulling my back against his chest.
“You’re pushing too hard,” he murmurs against my hair.
“Says the man who knocked me down fifteen times today.”
“Seventeen.” His hands find the knots in my shoulders, working them loose with practiced pressure. “You stopped counting after fifteen.”
“My ego couldn’t handle the full number.” I let my head fall back against his shoulder, eyes closing as his fingers dig into aching muscles. “You’re surprisingly good at this for someone with claws.”
“Four hundred years of practice.” His lips brush my ear, sending heat down my spine that has nothing to do with the water. “I’ve gotten good at being gentle when I need to be.”
“And brutal the rest of the time?”
“That depends entirely on what you’re asking for.”
I turn in his arms, water sloshing against the stone edges, and kiss him slow and deep. His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer until there’s no space between us.
“I’m asking,” I whisper against his mouth.
He shows me both.
By the end of the second week, I can hold a flame sphere while Drayke attacks, maintain concentration through pain, and only accidentally set things on fire twice a day instead of twelve times.
Progress.
Target practice comes next—Rurik’s contribution to my education. He sets up a row of stone pillars at varying distances and hands me a flask of something that smells like dragon piss and regret.
“Drink,” he orders. “It’ll help.”
