Tide’s Edge. A backward cut, pulling threat off-balance.
She finished the form. The Shields hummed. The night craved stillness.
And then a voice, so unexpected she whirled around.
“You cut clean.”
Zarrek stepped into the half-light. Tall. Broad. Quiet as a hunter. The amber glow of his runes visible at the gaps in his armor. His battleaxe hung over his back.
“Nameless, but not powerless,” he said. Almost a smile. Not quite.
Lu’ma touched her knuckles in greeting, then brushed the back of her hand to her brow. He nodded. She lifted her knife again. Kept moving.
Two Feathers Crossing. Phantom counter. Ghost throat cut.
Zarrek did not interrupt. He paced the edge of the ring, watching her stance and weight. A commander’s eye. Measuring without contempt.
When she lowered her blade, he stepped closer. Heat from him cut the chill.
“Not sleeping?”
She signed, 'The Lattice does not sleep. This Nameless keeps its hours.'
He watched her hands. “Your shoulders are tight. Not just from the forms.”
She signed,'Unease.'
He sighed. “You feel it too. The city's tilting. Auryn threw it off balance.”
She wanted to tell him everything, and so she did, repeating all she’d said to His Quintessence. Zarrek’s golden eyes read between her words, much like the Resh’Agar’s blue gaze.
'This Nameless fears the Companion the most.'
“Zeera,” he said. Flat as iron.
Lu’ma dipped her chin. Zarrek looked past her to the trees, bark silver even in weak light. Then stepped forward. His thumb pressed her wrists, not to restrain but to correct. “Your grip is good. But your weight runs to your toes. In a fight, that’s where you die.”
She shifted. Correcting herself, resetting her stance. He nodded. Drew his knife—not a threat, but a mirror.
“Again.”
They moved. Blades touched, redirected. Not sparring for points. Touching, testing, yielding. Their breath found rhythm together. The knot in her shoulders eased. His face softened from its grimace.
They stopped together. Lowered blades. The night steadied.
“We’ll see something shift before long,” Zarrek said. Simple fact. “If I were a coward with a title, I’d strike right after a miracle.”
Lu’ma signed, 'This Nameless told His Quintessence what could be told.'Then added,'Trust.'
He accepted without question. “Good. Resh will stand. But that’s not the problem. It’s who thinks they can reach past him to get to you.”
Heat pooled in Lu’ma’s chest. Not fear. Not anger. Purpose. She sheathed her knife. 'This Namelesswill stand.'
Zarrek nodded. He reached into his belt and pulled out a strip of leather. Step by step, he showed her how to tie it to her wrist and arm it with a dagger.
“Carry a second blade high. Here.” He tapped under the sleeve of her robe.
She looked at him for a long beat. Instruction from the Choir had always carried pain. But Zarrek always gentled the natural power in his hands when teaching.
