The sword that felt feather-light moments before, now hung like a leaden weight in my hand. We stood in the heart of the circular training ground, the churned dust settling around our boots like a fine brown mist.

“Show me,” Cassius instructed, his voice a calm anchor in the stillness.

I gripped the hilt, my right hand choking it, my left clamped awkwardly below it. The stance felt wrong, a contortion of bone and muscle. Cassius circled behind me, a predator’s grace in his silence. When he spoke, his voice was a low rumble so close it vibrated against my ear. “Breathe, Thalia. Let your shoulders fall.”

I tried, but they were defiant knots hitched up by my ears. His hands settled upon them, broad and warm, gently pressing down. The tension in my neck melted under his touch. “Relax,” he murmured, the word a physical command. “Space your hands. A breath apart. Bend your knees.”

As I shifted, he moved with me, his chest flush against my back. My breath caught. One of his hands slid down my arm to cup mine on the hilt, his fingers aligning my grip. “This is where the strength comes from,” he explained, his other hand applying gentle pressure to my spine. “Your core. Your legs. Not just your arms.” His breath stirred the hair at my temple. “Now, lift. To here.” He guided the blade up to the perfect angle.

I had to tilt my head to see his face, his dark hair brushing my cheek. The world narrowed to the space between us.

“Focus,” he said, and the gentleness in his tone was more commanding than any shout.

My attention snapped back to the sword. He stepped away, leaving a sudden coolness on my back. “Hold it,” he said. “Feel the balance. Now, shift your weight from your back foot to your front. Draw the blade high and slash.”

I pulled the sword up and threw my entire body into a downward arc, a grunt escaping my lips.

“Not bad,” Cassius said, his eyes narrowed in assessment. “Again.”

I stepped, swinging with a ferocity that turned my knuckles white.

“You’re strangling it, Thalia. A sword is a partner, not a prisoner. Relax your grip.”

I loosened my hold, forcing my fingers to unclench. “Perfect. Again.”

I swung.

“Good. Now, the dummy.” He gestured to the scarred wooden figure at the edge of the circle. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and gave a sharp nod.

“Practice that same strike,” he instructed as I approached the silent sentinel.

I lifted the sword, mimicked the motion, and swung.

The thunk of steel biting into wood was a jarring shockwave that shot straight up my arm and rattled my teeth. My grip faltered. The blade was stuck fast, and I had to plant my foot against the dummy’s base and yank, feeling a flush of frustration.

“Better,” Cassius’s voice came from behind me. “But control is more important than force. Be fluid. Again.”

I refocused, channeling my frustration into precision. I swung. The blade bit, but released with a clean pull. Good. I fell into a rhythm, the world shrinking to the arc of my blade, the whisper of steel through air, and the solid report of impact. Sweat slicked my brow and trickled down my temples. After a series of strikes that left my muscles humming with a pleasant ache, I paused and turned to find Cassius’s spot empty.

A flicker of disappointment, sharp and unwelcome, went through me.

I swung a few more times before my arms screamed for a reprieve. I carefully set the sword down and sank to the ground, the dust puffing around me. Reaching for that familiar, unseen pocket in space, I summoned a waterskin. The liquid was impossibly cool, a miracle against my dry throat. After sealing it, I sent it back to its dimension and wiped the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. A small, private smile touched my lips. That felt good.

A breeze stirred the dust, and Cassius emerged from the armory, the late early morning sun glinting off the polished steel of a second sword. He crossed the grounds and sat beside me, his presence comforting.

“How’s the arm?” he asked, his gaze on my shoulder.

“It’s fine,” I replied honestly. “My muscles are just trying to figure out what I’ve done to them.”

“You’ve never held a sword, and you’re training like a soldier. They have a right to protest.” He rested his own blade across his knees. “I was watching. Your form is improving.”

“Thank you,” I said, the sincerity heavy in my voice. “For teaching me.”

“I can teach you more,” he said, his tone shifting, shedding its casual warmth for something more serious. “But first, you have to make me a promise.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t get carried away. That you won’t try to overdo it when we spar.” His eyes held mine, searching for more than just an answer.

I considered it. “I promise to try my best not to.”

A genuine smile broke across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I know,” I replied, a playful challenge in my own smile as I rose. “Ready for that spar?”

He stood, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. “You’re awfully competitive for someone who just held her first sword today. You do realize I’m the teacher, don’t you?”

“I know,” I said, moving back to the center of the ring and finding my stance. It felt less foreign now.

“Good.” He mirrored my position. “First, I want you to feel the difference. Attack me.”

I lunged, aiming for a clean strike. In a blur of motion too fast to track, his blade was there to meet mine.

The shriek of steel on steel was nothing like the dull thud of wood. It was a living sound, a high-pitched scream that vibrated not just up my arm, but into the bones of my skull. My shock must have been written all over my face.

“Relax,” Cassius said, his voice impossibly calm.

I took a breath and reset, the ghost of the impact still humming in my hand.

“Again.”

This time I put my weight into it, determined to push him back. He met my blade with an ease that was almost insulting, his feet planted in the dust as if rooted to the center of the earth. The impact jarred me more than it did him.

“Your form is your foundation,” he said, his blade still locked with mine. “It won’t fail you. But your opponent will always be unpredictable.” He disengaged with a fluid twist of his wrist. “Now, block.”

Before I could process the command, his sword was a silver arc slicing toward me. Instinct took over. I snapped my blade up, catching his with a desperate clang. The pressure was immense—a deliberate, powerful weight that tested my stance and sent a tremor through my arms.

“Good,” he said, pulling back. “You attack.”

I didn’t hesitate. I came at him, but this time, I didn’t retreat. A stubborn fire ignited in my gut. I pressed the attack, a flurry of strikes, searching for an opening, a single flaw in his defense. There was none. He was a wall of steel and skill.

Frustration mounted, hot and blinding. An idea—reckless and unformed—sparked in the darkness of my mind.

Abandoning all technique, I swung my sword high in a wide, desperate arc. It was a clumsy, over-extended move that pulled me off balance, but it forced him to raise his own blade to block.

“Thalia—” he began, a note of caution in his voice.

In that split second, as his weight shifted, I saw it. Not an opening for my sword, but for my body. Before he could finish his warning, I dropped my center of gravity and pivoted, my foot hooking sharply behind his ankle.

Surprise flashed across his face. He stumbled, his perfect balance shattered.

The world tilted. A moment later, I was on top of him, straddling his chest as the dust settled around us in a sudden, shocking silence. I pressed the flat of my blade against his throat, my breath coming in ragged, painful pants.

“I win,” I gasped, the triumph raw in my voice.

His startlingly blue eyes locked with mine. The world stopped. The air was thick with the scent of dust and his sweat, and the only sound was the frantic pounding of my own heart.

“Thalia,” he said, his voice was low. “Look down.”

His gaze drifted pointedly to my side. My eyes followed.

My heart plummeted. The silver tip of his sword was pressed firmly against my ribs, perfectly positioned between them. He’d had me the entire time.

“A reckless move,” he said, his voice steady and devoid of judgment, “is not a victory.”

The heat of shame flooded my cheeks. I could only nod, the triumph draining away, replaced by a cold, heavy silence. We stared at each other, our eyes locked in a new, sharp understanding.

Then, his gaze dropped. “Your pocket is glowing.”

The moment shattered. I scrambled off him, all clumsy limbs and awkward haste, and fumbled for the small sphere in my pocket. It pulsed with a soft, urgent light, a silent alarm in the palm of my hand.

“Amelia,” I whispered, the name a puff of air.