Page 56 of The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King

He approached anyway.

I still didn’t want to look at him, embarrassed about what I’d allowed him to see. Me crying and punching the air like a child. Nice.

But his silence was too long. Too meaningful.

Finally, I turned to him.

“What?” I snapped.

He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it.

“Nothing. You sure you don’t want to spar? Better than punching the dummy. Going to have to train with me eventually.” He reached for his sword, raising a brow. Only now did it occur to me how strange it was that he always kept it on him, even when he was walking around his own castle. Maybe he felt just as uncomfortable in this place as I did.

He added, with a conspiratorial half-smile, “I’m only offering because I don’t see any windows you can throw me out of this time.”

I didn’t know why I hesitated. I did need to remind myself of how Raihn fought—needed to make sure I would be able to strike him down when I had to.

And yet… it made me uncomfortable.

I shoved that sensation away and bit out, “Fine. If you want to spar, then let’s spar.”

And I didn’t give Raihn time to react before I lunged.

But he was ready. He blocked and countered me easily.

All of it was easy—that was what made it so difficult.

When I had fought Raihn in the armory, I’d so hated to be reminded of how well we knew each other, how seamlessly we fought together. Now, wielding my blades rather than that clumsy sword, the ghosts of our final battle in the Kejari surrounded us. The ache of my muscles faded away. The two of us hurtled across the training ring together as if locked in a dance.

I hated this, and I loved it. It was something solid to grab onto, something mindless and painful in all the physical places I could handle. And yet, every one of Raihn’s strikes reminded me of the familiarity we’d once had. Reminded me of what he had used it to do.

A month.

I let out a wordless grunt of exertion as the clangs of metal against metal came faster, faster, faster. I saw his mouth twist, just a little—heard what he didn’t say aloud:

There she is.

The Nightfire erupted around me, this time not just clinging to my blades and my hands, but embracing my entire body.

Raihn jerked backwards, his arm flying up to shield his face, and that was enough to yank me from my trance.

Awareness of my body crashed back into me. My panting breath. Burning lungs. Screaming muscles. Just as quickly, the Nightfire withered.

I stumbled to the ground as Raihn raised his sword in a yield.

He was panting, too. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “That,” he said, “is impressive. Seems like it comes to you a lot easier than it did before.”

Thank youdidn’t feel like the right answer. I inspected my blade, polishing it with my sleeve.

“Did you do that on purpose?” he asked.

It was the kind of question that was really a statement, and that annoyed me.

“When I first got my Heir Mark,” he said, “everything just… rearranged. I still can’t describe how different I felt afterwards. And then, when Nyaxia…” He flinched. Shrugged. “It just changes a lot. It was like I didn’t know what my own body was capable of anymore.”

His words rang uncomfortably true. But he didn’t ask me if I felt that way, too. Maybe because he already knew the answer.

“You’re half vampire, Oraya,” he said quietly. “Not just half vampire, but an Heir. Have you thought about what that might mean?”

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