He moves to the weapons rack and pulls out a second staff, the metal cores of both wrapped in reinforced carbon composite, designed to absorb and redistribute kinetic impact. Small indicator lights run along the shafts, currently dormant.
“Staff work,” he says, turning to face me. The dark linen of his training clothes makes his dirty blond hair look even brighter in thelow light. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s working to keep it that way.
He gestures to the rack where his usual swordlike weapon rests, the blade’s edge gleaming with the faint shimmer of molecular bonding. “All House leaders keep their primary weapons within reach. Always. Even during diplomatic functions, even while sleeping.” He offers me one of the staves. “We’re always on guard.”
I take it, surprised by its weight and balance. The composite wrapping is smooth, worn from use, but the metal core vibrates faintly under my fingers.
“Staves are more practical than swords for someone your size. Longer reach, better defensive options.” He activates his own staff with a quick twist at the base, and the indicator lights pulse once – blue, then steady. “The impact dampeners are set to training mode. They’ll still hurt, but they won’t break bones.”
He demonstrates a basic stance, feet planted shoulder-width apart, the staff held diagonal across his body with one hand near the center and the other at the base. “Your weight should be distributed evenly. You need to be able to move in any direction.”
Then he walks behind me to adjust my grip.
“Like this.” His hands cover mine, warm and rough, and my heart stops. He shifts my fingers along the wood, repositioning my hold. “The staff is an extension of your body, not a separate tool.”
I force myself to concentrate. We run through some basic forms – strikes, blocks, defensive spins. The movements are made as simple as possible, but my body rebels with every motion. My arms shake. Sweat stings my eyes.
“Again,” Zevran says, circling me. “Faster this time.”
I try. The staff blurs in my hands, but my footwork is clumsy, my reactions too slow.
“You’re overthinking it.” Zevran says critically.
“I’mtrying.” I huff.
He comes at me, his own staff moving in a controlled arc. I raise mine to block, but the impact jars through my weakened arms and I stumble backward.
“Too slow.” He says. Not cruel – just true.
I grit my teeth and reset my stance. We go again, and this time I manage to deflect his first strike. But the second comes too fast, and I barely avoid it. By the third exchange, my vision is swimming and my breath comes in ragged gasps.
The staff slips from my grip, clattering on stone. I sway.
He tosses his own staff aside. “Enough.”
“I can still?—”
“You can barelystand, Cyra.”
“So what? You’ve fought half-dead before.”
He scowls. “That’s different.”
“How?” I take a step toward him, fury giving me strength I don’t have.
“Because whenyoubreak, I can’t fix you.”
I open my mouth to answer, but he’s already closing the space between us.
“You don’t listen,” he says, low. His face is inches away from mine now, frustration in his eyes. I clench my hands into fists, my own frustration boiling over as I tilt my chin up, unafraid now to meet his gaze directly.
“Neither doyou.” I counter.
Then – before I can register what’s really happening – his mouth crashes against mine. Rough. Unguarded. It’s not a kiss meant to seduce – it’s one meant to silence, to surrender.
I grab his shirt and pull him closer. His body hits mine hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs. Heat. The grind of cloth between us.
His hands slide down my back and anchor on my hips. I can feel every inch of him – hard and desperate. My body arches in response before my mind can catch up.
