The bastard. He’s actually helping.
Late afternoon.The sun has begun its descent toward the mountains, painting the training yard in shades of amber and gold.
Nasyra stands at the yard’s center, shadow-flame swirling around her hands. She’s attempting something more complex now—not just a sphere, but a shape with form and intention. A blade of dark fire, solidified enough to hold its edge.
Rurik has been mercifully silent for the past twenty minutes, though I suspect that’s more about not wanting to ruin the moment than any newfound respect for boundaries.
The blade wavers. Flickers. For a moment, I think she’s going to lose it—the fire will scatter, the construct will collapse, and we’ll be back to square one.
Then it doesn’t.
The shadow-flame solidifies, edges sharpening, form stabilizing. Nasyra holds a blade of dark fire in her hand—imperfect, flickering at the edges, but real. Controlled. Hers.
Her eyes widen. “I did it.”
“You did.”
Something blooms in my chest—pride, fierce and unexpected. She’s done something that took me decades to master. Something I wasn’t sure was possible for anyone else.
She must see it in my face. The pride. The admiration. Her breath catches, her expression shifting through surprise into something softer, something almost vulnerable.
The blade flickers. She looks away first, dismissing the construct before it can destabilize.
“Well,” Rurik says from the fence, “that was disgustingly tender. I feel like I should give you two some privacy.”
“Then leave.”
“Can’t. This is too good.” He hops down from his perch, wandering closer. “You should have seen your faces. Very ‘star-crossed lovers gazing at each other across a burning battlefield.’ Very dramatic. Very romance novel.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Nasyra says flatly.
“You’ll have to get in line. Aisling has first claim.”
“She can have what’s left when I’m done.”
Rurik clutches his chest in mock offense. “Such violence! Such passion! No wonder your fire is so unstable—all that repressed emotion, just waiting to explode.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Actually, that might be literally true. Have you considered that the best cure for your control issues might be?—“
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
“—a good workout? I was going to say a good workout. Get your mind out of the gutter, Nasyra.” He grins. “Though now that you mention it?—“
She throws the shadow-flame at him.
It’s not a real attack—she pulls it at the last second, the fire dissipating harmlessly a foot from his face. But the intent is clear enough to make him stumble backward, arms pinwheeling.
“Worth it,” he says, straightening his shirt. “Totally worth it.”
And Nasyra?—
Nasyra laughs.
It’s reluctant. Pulled from her against her will. A snort of laughter she tries to bite back and can’t. The sound is bright and startled and achingly familiar.
I go still.
That laugh. I know that laugh. Heard it a thousand times in gardens and hallways and quiet moments stolen between duty and disaster. Death, resurrection, and memory manipulation, and her laugh hasn’t changed.
She’s still in there. The woman I loved. The woman I lost. She’s still in there, buried beneath the pain and the lies, fighting to surface.
