Durgan's practice sword caught him across the ribs.
The impact was just a training blow pulled short, but the fact that it landed at all sent a ripple of surprise through the warriors around him. Kethrak actually stepped back, his eyes widening.
Targesh had not taken a hit in sparring in three years.
"Warchief?" Durgan's voice was carefully neutral. "Your guard dropped."
"I am aware." Targesh reset his stance, rolling his shoulders. "Again."
They came at him together this time, coordinated, and he let the combat consume his attention. The familiar burn of exertion. The clean simplicity of bodies in motion. He disarmed Durgan with a twist that sent the practice sword spinning across the yard, drove Kethrak back with a shoulder check, and when he turned to face the next pair of sparring partners—
She was gone.
The overlook was empty.
Targesh stared at the vacant stone, his breath still coming hard from the drill. Then he handed his practice sword to the nearest warrior and walked to the water barrel without a word.
The morning air bit at his overheated skin. He cupped water in his palms and splashed it across his face, his chest, the back of his neck. Cold enough to shock. Not cold enough to matter.
"You're distracted," Ralvar moved to stand beside him, reaching for the water dipper. His voice was pitched low, beneath the hearing of the warriors still drilling in the yard. "She was watching."
"Many people watch the training yard."
"Many people do not make the Warchief of the Mountain Clan drop his guard."
Targesh turned then, meeting his captain's gaze. Ralvar was nearly a foot shorter than him, but he held himself confidently. His expression was carefully neutral.
"It was not—" Targesh stopped. He was not a young warrior to be baited into defending himself. "The drills will continue. I have duties elsewhere."
He moved toward the edge of the yard, toward the stairs that led to his quarters. Behind him, Ralvar's voice carried just far enough to reach his ears.
"Delia has taken her for tea."
Targesh paused. He should not care where Verity Dunmore went or who she spoke with. She was a guest. A scholar. A temporary presence who would complete her work and return to Valdara, taking her relentless questions back across the border where she belonged.
He turned. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I remember what it was like."
"This is not that."
"No?"
"She is human."
"So is Delia."
"She is here for three months. To study documents."
Ralvar set down the water dipper. "The night patrols mentioned seeing candlelight in the archives at the third watch."
Targesh's jaw tightened. Of course his movements were being noted—he was warchief; everything he did was noted—but he had not thought it through to the inevitable conclusions.
"I was checking on her progress," he said. "Ensuring she was not accessing restricted materials."
"In the middle of the night."
"Is there something you wish to say, Captain?"
