When the door clicks open, I don’t even look up. I’m sprawled across Caziel’s bed, limbs heavy, cheek mashed into the pillow that still smells like him. I’ve been awake for a while, but moving seems optional. The idea of staying here all day—warm sheets, no trials, no contenders—feels decadent. Almost holy.
“You have been here since I left,” Caz says, shutting the door behind him, a smile teases the corner of his lips.
I make a vague sound into the pillow. “It’s called a break. You should try it.”
There’s a pause as he drops his glamor, then his voice comes closer, laced with suspicion. “The Umbral thread.”
I roll onto my back, blinking up at him. It’s still disorienting, that moment where the man I’ve been staring at all this time becomes something more. My stomach does a strange, warm flip.
“Yes, you gave it to me.”
“I know,” he says, crossing to the bed, “but I did not expect you to let it dig its claws in this fast.”
“Excuse me? I’m fine,” I say, even though fine apparently means I’d rather sink into the mattress than train. “Besides, I’ve needed exactly zero self-defense so far. Let me have my staycation.”
His mouth curves, faint but knowing.
“The threads are meant to affect you ahead of the trial. That is half the reason I give them to you, so you will know what to expect whenyou step through the archway. It makes the difference between awareness and drowning in it.”
“And the other half?” I ask warily.
His eyes hold mine in a way that makes my pulse skip. “If you are going to face it, I would rather you face it here. With me.”
The Umbral thread hums again, urging me to sink back into the pillows, to let him come closer, to let everything else fade. He is watching me too closely, like he knows exactly what it is doing to me, and maybe he does. I just can’t bring myself to care right now.
That makes me blink. “Wait, you agree with me?”
“Yes,” he says simply. “But you have been training for a reason. The other contenders grew up versed in combat. It is universal here. Every Daemari learns to fight. I needed you to be able to defend yourself if one of them decided to make you their next demonstration, or if the Rite decided to fight back with claws.” His gaze lingers, a flicker of something like pride there. “You have done well enough that none have tried.”
That unexpected note of approval sends a little spark through me, but I shake my head. “So, no more sparring?”
His expression shifts. “Not for Umbral.”
I frown. “And why not?”
“Because Umbral does not strike with a blade,” he says, voice lower now. “It does not force you into a fight. It convinces you there is no need to have one.”
I laugh once, short and disbelieving. “That’s not exactly terrifying.” Honestly? It sounds like a dream. A good one.
“Not now,” he agrees, studying me like he’s trying to measure how far the thread has gotten under my skin. “But when you are knee-deep in it, you will not notice you have stopped moving until it is too late. Stillness can kill as quickly as steel. You will not see it coming. You will not think to fight.”
There’s an edge there I don’t usually hear from him, a note of genuine worry he is trying to bury under logic. I open my mouth to argue, but the weight in my chest makes it harder than it should be. The Umbral thread hums again, urging me to sink back into the pillows, to let him come closer, to let everything else fade. He’s watching me too closely, like he knows exactly how heavy my limbs feel, and maybe he does.
His jaw works, but instead of snapping at me, he sits on the edge of the bed. “No weapons this time.”
I lift a brow. “Oh?”
“No point. You will not need to fight anything you can stab. I can teach you here,” he says. “If you do not want to get up, we can use the bed.”
There’s a thread of challenge in his tone, but the way he braces one knee on the mattress makes it feel less like training and more like something else entirely. He leans over me, close enough that the heat rolling off him could burn away whatever lethargy has settled in my bones.
“Umbral convinces you to be still. To forget what matters. You will think you are simply taking a rest, but you can bleed out before you realize you have stopped moving.”
I swallow. “So don’t stop.”
His mouth curves, but it’s not a smile.
“Don’t stop,” he agrees, voice low. “Not even when rest feels good.”
