“Holy shit,” I murmur.
“You’re adapting.”
“You mean I don’t suck as bad now? Or you charmed it to save a lost cause?”
He steps closer. “Instincts are sharper when the tools fit the hands.”
I hold the blade upright for a moment, watching it catch the light.Then lower it slowly and turn toward him. I feels like an extension of my arm.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something about the silence behind his eyes softens.
“You’re expected to fight,” he says. “You should have a weapon made for you.”
“Do most Daemari have bespoke weaponry?”
There’s a heavy moment of silence. Then, “No.”
Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s nothing. But I feel it in my chest like something breaking open. I laugh—because I don’t know what else to do.
“You’re really not big on gestures, are you?”
“This is a gesture.”
I glance down at the sword again. Then back at him.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It really is.”
We start slow. Honestly, a relief, because I don’t think my pulse has come down since he handed me my gift. Caziel circles me like a storm cloud that hasn’t decided whether it wants to break open. One hand behind his back, the other resting lightly on the hilt of his own blade—not drawn, just present. Always present.
“Stance,” he says quietly.
I move into the position he taught me just a few days ago. Is that how long it’s been? It feels like an eon. The new weapon fits my grip better than I could’ve imagined. My fingers find the curve of the hilt like I was born with it in my grasp, but something’s off in my shoulders. I can feel it. Caz notices too. He steps in, fingers brushing against my spine, adjusting the angle of my posture. He’s not rough, not pushy—just firm. Confident. His hand rests lightly between my shoulder blades for a breath longer than necessary and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.
“You’re favoring your right side again,” he murmurs near my ear.
“I’m left-handed.” Is that a thing here? None of the other Daemari seemed to hold their weapons on the left, but they didn’t stop me when I did.
“I know. It will be an asset if you can protect your right side, too.”
He places his hand on my left wrist, guiding the tilt of my blade. My heart is beating fast, and it has nothing to do with combat readiness.
“You’re not breathing,” he says.
I suck in a sharp inhale. “Trying not to faint.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “From exertion?”
“Let’s go with that.”
“Yes, breathing will help.” The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s very much aware he’s a smartass, and I can’t tell if it makes me want to run or pull him closer.
We move into motion drills. Strike, retreat. Pivot, block. I fumble the first few combinations. They’re not hard, but every time he brushes past me to redirect my grip or correct my footwork, I forget what I’m doing. His touch is precise, not lingering, but it burns, kicking up my pulse and stealing the air from my lungs.
At one point, he steps in behind me to adjust my stance again. His hands slide down my arms, nudging the bend of my elbows. My breath catches and he goes still. For a second, the room feels entirely too small. Then he clears his throat and steps back and my lungs burn.
“Better,” he says, like the moment didn’t just short-circuit my spine.
