“You’re not alone, Kay,” he says again.
And this time? It feels like a vow.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
KAY
I’m roughly eighty percent sure this is the same room from the first training bouts, but it’s different this time. Bigger, less intimate, and colder in a way that has nothing to do with temperature. That also could have something to do with the significantly smaller number of people today. Body heat, adrenaline, and all that.
Two others are already here when Sarai drops me off at the outer doors. One I recognize immediately, the pair of knives strapped to her thighs as memorable as the long red braids. I avoided facing her during the first round of bouts, refusing to reach for the weapon alongside me. She’s dressed in a simple tunic and leather belt, but carries herself like the blades along her thighs are part of her very bones. Her dark eyes track me without expression.
The man beside her is unfamiliar, at least in a way that counts. I’ve seen him in passing, watching the training rings from a distance, arms always folded like he’s choosing his moment. He’s a bit taller than Caz, built like a reed—long and lean. His robes are wine dark and he wears them like armor. Purple streaks his ash dark hair and something shadowed whispers at his fingertips.
Caziel is there too. Leaning against one of the stone columns like he’s just part of the architecture. His gaze flickers once across me but says nothing. That’s all I get. That’s the vibe today.
“Warm welcome,” I mutter to myself. “Really rolling out the bloodstained carpet.”
The woman’s brow arches. The man’s mouth tugs, barely.
Caziel pushes off the column. “Begin with blade forms.” Then he walks to the far wall and says nothing else.
Training with someone watching you is one thing. Training with someone judging you—when you’re not entirely sure they’re not mad at you—is another. Still, I move to mirror the others. Follow their rhythm. They’re good. Really good. It’s not like training with Caz, where everything is surgical and cold. These two fight like they’ve done it in real battles—quick, decisive, economic. They don’t move for show. They move to end things.
The woman turns toward me between sequences.
“Your shoulders are tense.”
I blink. “Sorry. Is that a Crimson faux pas?”
“It’s just inefficient.”
She steps forward, nudges one with the flat of her fingers, then lifts my elbow. “There.”
I reset. Run the form again. Even I can feel the difference.
“Thanks.”
She nods once, then glances at the man. “You’re the one she hasn’t fought yet.”
“That wasn’t my decision.”
The man inclines his head. He lifts one hand, palm up. Heat rises. A spiral of flame and kinetic shimmer spins briefly in the air between us—no bigger than a plate, but controlled. Beautiful.
“Blades aren’t always the best tool,” he says simply.
“You’re a wizard?”
“A mage.” He nods. The shimmer vanishes and he shrugs.
We move through more sequences. They’re not trying to outdo me, but include me. It’s a strange dynamic between us. Not hostile. Not warm either. Just respectful. Like sparring with coworkers who have no stake in whether you live or die. I don’t realize why until between rounds when we pause for water. I wipe my forehead and flop to sit cross-legged on the floor. They aren’t here because Caziel is training them. They’re helping him train me.
“So is this normal for you guys?” I ask. “Training together?” They have an ease about them, something tells me they’ve sparred in the past.
“No,” the woman says.
The man just says, “Unusual.”
I shake my head. The contenders as a rule are clearly no strangers to combat. Even the young guy with the flyaway curls. Every one of them either has no nerves whatsoever or they could sweep the BAFTAs in every major acting category. I frown.
