He tossed one to her.
She caught it, though barely.
“That grip will get you killed,” he remarked, not brusquely. But not softly either.
“I caught it,” she pointed out.
He ignored her. “Show me.”
Ilys adjusted her stance, raising the blade into a semblance of readiness.
Grim studied her for a long moment, his fingers tapping absently against his thigh. He stepped forward, reaching for her wrist and she barely had time to react before he knocked the dagger from her hand, sending it skidding across the dirt.
“Stop holding it so tight,” he demanded. “It makes you slow.”
Ilys flexed her fingers, irritation pricking at the back of her throat. She retrieved the dagger, resetting her stance. Grim watched, waiting.
She lunged.
He caught her wrist. Too slow.
She tried again, twisting to strike from the side, but Grim deflected easily, guiding her own momentum off course until she staggered.
Her breath came faster. Her feet slipped in the ground.
She hated this. She hated the smallness that crept in. The way slowness felt like shame. The unreadiness felt like failure.
Grim stepped back, watching her carefully. “Again.”
They fell into the rhythm. Strike. Parry. Misdirection. Counter.
Slower this time. More calculated. She feinted right, then shifted her weight, aiming lower. Grim sidestepped at the last moment, catching her by the arm.
She grit her teeth, cursing Grim’s stringent routines and bare-boned demeanor. She wanted to swim. She wanted to play. She wanted Grim for once to be pleased and satisfied and to let her be.
“Again.”
The pattern continued. Over and over.
Strike. Parry. Misdirection. Counter.
Her veil clung to her sticky skin. The hidden pins at her temple and neck tugging with every motion. She couldn’t see well around its edge. The world narrowed to the blade in her palm, the rhythm of her own breath, the feeling of the ground beneath her boots. She could feel the ache settling into her limbs, the stiffness creeping into her fingers.
Finally and mercifully, Grim stepped back. “Enough.”
He always stopped just before she broke. Never a second sooner.
Ilys rolled her sore shoulders, veil swaying and wetted with sweat. The morning air no longer felt cold.
Grim watched her, unreadable. Then, softer, he added, “Better.”
Not praise. Not exactly. But coming from Grim, it felt close to a miracle.
Boots on stone broke the quiet.
Ilys turned as Baron, Captain of the Guard, strode into the courtyard. He wore plain dark leather with steel set at the shoulders, marking his role as a soldier. His sword hung easy at his hip, but tension still held his spine. He greeted her with a dim smile, then looked to Grim.
"Grim,” Baron addressed, his grin teasing wider at the sight of him.
