I blink. “What?”
“If you’re going to survive the final Trial in a few months, you’ll need more than a sharp tongue and blind luck.”
“Oh, stars,” I mutter, rising and taking the blade. “You’re seriously going to train me right now?”
“No.” He steps in close—close enough that I have to lift my chin to hold his gaze. “I’m training you every day until further notice.”
Danger laces his deep voice.
Then he turns on his heel and strides for the door. “Come on. Let’s see what you’re made of.”
Keiren leads me past the armory, deeper into the keep than I’ve ever dared venture. The air cools and the light thins as we step into a vast chamber carved from the mountain’s heart. Enchanted torches gutter along the walls, throwing steel and shadow across racks of weapons. Training dummies stand like mute witnesses.
“This is where I come to bleed,” he says, stepping into a painted circle. “Figured you might want a turn.”
“Comforting.”
He tosses me a pair of leather wraps. “Hands.”
When my wrists are bound, he nods once. “Show me how you move.”
I square my stance and lunge—too eager, off-balance. He slips aside with infuriating ease. Already frustrated, I swing at him, but he ducks without missing a beat.
I grit my teeth and strike harder, faster. With every strike, he meets me with the flat of his blade or an effortless twist of his wrist. Not a bead of sweat dots his brow even as mine glistens.
“You’re fast,” he says, circling, “but not focused.”
“Says the man who keeps dodging instead of fighting,” I accuse him, hoping to rile him up.
“Oh, Fire…” His voice drops. “This isn’t fighting.”
He lunges.
Steel and motion swallow the next breath. His blade knocks mine from my hand, sending it skittering across the stone floor. He steps in, all heat and leather, one hand bracing my back, the other beneath my jaw, tilting my face up.
“This isdancing.”
My breath catches. For a heartbeat, we don’t move. Then I shove him—hard.
He stumbles—just one step back, but it’s enough. I snatch my blade and drive forward.
We clash. Steel meets steel. Sparks leap. My braid whips my back, and sweat slicks my spine.
Faster,I tell myself.Harder.
Still, he turns me aside again and again until I’m panting and flushed, chest heaving.
He catches a wild swing and twists, disarming me. His free hand gracefully catches my waist when I nearly fall.
We freeze. His hand lingers as our faces hover inches apart.
“You’re improving,” he murmurs, eyes flicking—traitorously—to my mouth.
I want to punch him. Or kiss him. Maybe both.
Instead, I tear my blade free and step back. He lets me.
We circle. This time, I find rhythm. Focus. Fury. I wait for the opening and take it—strike, pivot, sweep.
