The Spark
-Maris-
The courtyard was silent when she arrived.
No clashing steel, no barked commands. Just the hum of morning fog curling around obsidian spires, the scent of ash and frost clinging to the air.
She blinked against the pale light.
Where were Valea and the others?
Her boots scuffed against the stone floor as she stepped forward, expecting to be told she’d come too early or had missed a summons.
Instead she saw him — Kael.
Standing alone in the center of the sparring ring. Cloak tossed aside, shirt unlaced at the throat, pale skin slick with the sheen of exertion and anticipation. A sword rested casually in his grip, angled toward the ground. His dark hair was unbound and wild, dark tendrils grazing his shoulders and his expression — Sinister. Cocky.
Maris’s breath caught.
“You’re late,” Kael said, voice smooth as velvet dragged across a blade.
“I wasn’t told I should arrive at drills prior to sunrise.” A flush crept up her neck as she murmured the reply.
“I sent the summons myself.” His voice held its usual swagger, though a flicker of uncertainty threaded through.
He took a step closer. The ring’s silver boundary lines shimmered faintly beneath their boots, wards humming with ancient magic to contain accidents… or power.
“You've had the luxury of sparring with generous opponents,” he said, circling her now like a wolf might a too-bold doe. “Today, I don't plan to extend the same courtesy.”
“You callthemgenerous — does that make you my punishment?” she asked, lifting her chin with a teasing smile. “Or are you just here to satisfy your curiosity?”
His smile widened. “Does it matter?”
He removed his shirt and tossed her a gleaming blade — sleek, balanced, and cool to the touch. It settled in her palm like it belonged there, as if forged with her grip in mind. Nothing like the dulled, clunky practice swords she'd grown accustomed to wielding in drills.
His first strike came without warning.
Kael moved like liquid shadow, his blade sweeping low, forcing her to duck, roll, strike back.
She hit air.
He was gone before her blade even whistled past. Her breath came faster.
They danced this way for what felt like ages. She lunged, he twisted. She kicked, he caught her ankle midair and spun her off balance.
“You’re distracted,” he murmured, catching her from behind, his breath hot against her temple.
“Maybe I just like watching you before I strike,” she snapped, elbowing him hard in the ribs.
He grunted, stepping back. “Better.”
Their blades met again.
Metal rang, magic sparked between them like kindling desperate for flame.
She was sweating now, hair clinging to her jaw. When she wiped at her mouth, she tasted something sharp on her lip — salt and heat and something unmistakably him.
His sweat, she realized, heart stuttering.
