She catches me staring. The laughter dies, replaced by wariness. “What?”
“Nothing.” I force myself to look away. “Good work today. We’ll continue tomorrow.”
I leave before she can see whatever is showing on my face. Before the hope in my chest can become something visible. Something she might feel obligated to respond to.
But I carry the sound of her laughter with me long after the training yard is empty.
And for the first time in a long, long time, hope doesn’t feel like a weapon turned against me.
It feels like a beginning.
FIFTEEN
NASYRA
Aweek.
Seven days of training with Zyphon. Of his patient instruction and my slowly crumbling resistance. Of his hands correcting my stance, his voice low in my ear, his shadows reaching for my fire in ways that make my skin prickle with awareness I’m running out of excuses to deny.
I’m getting better. The shadow-flame responds to intention now, not just emotion. I can hold constructs for minutes instead of seconds, shape them into blades and shields that don’t explode when Rurik inevitably shows up to offer commentary. Yesterday, I managed to maintain focus through an entire session without snapping at Zyphon once.
He’d noticed. Said “good” in that quiet way of his, and something warm had flickered in his expression before he looked away.
I’d looked away too. We do that a lot now—catching each other’s gaze and then retreating, neither willing to acknowledge what keeps pulling our attention back.
The memories don’t help.
They’ve been coming more frequently since that first fragment in my window—flashes of a life I don’t rememberliving. Zyphon’s face, younger and unburdened, laughing at something I said. His hand in mine as we walked through a garden I almost recognize. The way he looked at me across a crowded room, as if I was the only person in it worth seeing.
Last night, I dreamed of dancing. His arms around me, my head against his chest. I woke with the phantom sensation of his warmth still pressed against me, and I’d lain in the dark for an hour, trying to convince myself it meant nothing.
It’s getting harder to hate him. Harder to hold onto the fury Lakhu planted when the man in front of me keeps failing to match the monster I was promised.
“You’re staringat your porridge like it personally offended you.”
Selene’s voice pulls me back to the present. I blink, realizing I’ve been sitting at the Fire-Bringer table for several minutes without actually eating anything.
“Sorry. Thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.” Aisling slides into the seat across from me, her own plate loaded with eggs and toast. “I find it’s better to repress everything until it comes out as inappropriate sarcasm.”
“Is that medical advice?”
“Personal experience. The medical advice is to talk about your feelings, but that sounds exhausting.”
Selene laughs, settling beside me with a cup of tea. These morning gatherings have become routine over the past week—the three of us claiming a corner of the great hall before the dragons descend and turn breakfast into a spectacle of competitive eating and loud opinions.
“So,” Selene says, her tone shifting to something deliberately casual. “How’s training going?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?” Aisling raises an eyebrow. “No progress? No breakthroughs? No... moments?”
“What kind of moments?”
“The kind where your trainer is standing very close and your heart does something stupid.” Aisling’s expression is perfectly innocent. “Hypothetically.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
