If he can quiet the addiction itself – erase it with nothing but his presence – what else could he take from me?
Mother didn’t vanish. She chose to leave.
That thought should hurt more than it does, but right now, all I can focus on is the hum building at the base of my skull.
The craving is back … it’s not as bad as the night after the Furnace, but it’s building. I can still move. For now. It seems each time it returns, it hits harder, the interval between collapse and control shrinking until I can barely tell where one ends and the other begins. The Conclave is feeding on me faster than I can recover … but I don’t have time to process any of it. Today is the first day of training.
It begins at dawn.
Ren leads me to a private sparring room deep within the arena’s training section, a space equipped with weapons racks, practice mats, and various unrecognizable-to-me equipment. She’s changed into fitted black leather that emphasizes her lean strength, and the way she moves suggests she could kill me in three seconds if she wanted to. I find myself watching how she walks, the way she radiates strength.
“You should know some basic hand-to-hand combat,” she says, moving to stand in front of me. “You’re no longer anonymous. That means every public appearance is a performance, every interaction a potential trap.”
She demonstrates a defensive stance, both fists held close to her face, her movements fluid. “Your body language speaks before you do. Right now, you’re broadcasting uncertainty.”
I try to mirror her posture, my hands trembling from withdrawal.
Ren moves behind me to adjust my stance. Her hands settle on myshoulders, warm and steady through the thin fabric of my training clothes. She shifts my weight, one hand sliding down to my lower back to correct my posture. The touch is professional, but I feel steadier under her guidance. Grounded in a way I haven’t felt since the withdrawal started clawing at me again last night.
“There,” she says quietly, close enough that I can smell a delightful waft of vanilla. “Hold that.”
When she’s satisfied with my positioning, she steps back and raises her fists again. “Now, try to hit me.”
The next hour is a humbling exercise in just how unprepared I am for physical confrontation. Ren deflects my clumsy attacks with ease while providing constant correction. She never makes me feel foolish. Every adjustment comes with patience, every failed attempt met with steady encouragement.
“Don’t think so much,” she advises after I stumble through another failed combination. She demonstrates again, and I watch the way her body coils and releases. “Fighting is instinct, Lady Cyra … not analysis.”
I try again. This time my fist comes closer to connecting before she redirects it.
“Better,” she says. The corner of her mouth quirks up, and I feel an unexpected warmth in my chest at earning that approval.
Halfway through a series of defensive blocks, my vision blurs. The room tilts. I stumble, and Ren catches me before I hit the mat, one arm around my waist, the other steadying my shoulder. For a moment I’m pressed against her, held upright by her strength, and my body registers the steadiness of her … a comfort distinct from anything I’ve felt before.
“Easy,” she murmurs. “I’ve got you.”
She helps me to the wall, her hands careful. I catch myself swallowing bile, the hum in my skull drowning out everything else.
“Are you alright?” Ren asks. There’s no judgment in her voice, no impatience. Just concern.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
She hands me a metal cup filled with water from the water station in the training room, and waits until I can stand without swaying. Shedoesn’t hover, doesn’t press, but she doesn’t leave either. Just stands there while I pull myself back together.
“We can stop.” She offers gently.
“No.” I straighten, though my legs feel hollow. “Let’s keep going.”
Her ice blue eyes hold mine for a long moment. “Alright.”
By the time we finish, I’m dripping with sweat and achingly aware of muscles I’d forgotten I had. But there’s also a growing confidence in my own body, a sense that maybe I’m not as helpless as I’d always believed.
“Better,” she says, offering me a towel. “You have good instincts when you trust them.”
“Thank you.” I take the towel, and our fingers overlap for a moment. Her hands are calloused, warm. I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, the shared space of exhaustion and sweat, the way her eyes drift over my body even when she’s not looking to correct my posture.
“I asked for this assignment, you know,” she says as she puts away the water cups. “When the Cardinals were deciding who to send, I volunteered.”
I furrow my brow. “Why?”
