Page 32 of Blood and Thorns

“Let me help,” he says finally, voice lowered.

I blink. “Help? With a few more drills?”

He nods. “Just you and me, no Helrath. We’ll go at a pace that won’t tear you apart. But I can correct your parry technique better than most.”

A swirl of surprise and an odd delight sweeps through me. “You’d do that?”

He huffs a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Are you forgetting I’m the one who orchestrated all this training?”

Heat warms my cheeks, and I step around him to retrieve a wooden practice sword. My muscles protest the motion, but I clench my teeth. He moves to the rack as well, selecting a sword for himself—a longer style with a slender blade.

We claim a rough circle in the courtyard, the late sun slanting across the flagstones. My heart pounds in anticipation, though part of me doubts I can endure another hour of sparring. But the promise of Vaelorian’s direct tutelage spurs me on.

He takes position opposite me, adjusting his grip. “Show me your stance,” he orders.

I comply, muscles humming with fatigue. He inspects me critically—angle of knees, tilt of shoulders, distribution of weight. Then he steps behind me, carefully placing one hand on my waist and the other on my wrist to adjust my posture. The contact sends a jolt through my system—awareness that has nothing to do with training.

My breath catches. He’s so close I can feel the faint brush of his wing against my back. I swallow hard, fighting the stir of longing I’ve tried to bury for weeks. This is a lesson, nothing more.

He murmurs, “Relax your arm. Stiffen only when you meet the blade.”

I nod, exhaling. He steps back around to face me, and something in his expression flickers—like he’s as aware of that physical closeness as I am.

“Ready?” he asks, voice slightly hoarser.

“Yes,” I manage.

He lunges with a smooth, controlled motion, the wooden sword angled toward my side. I move to parry, but my timing is off; our blades meet with a crack, and I stumble. Vaelorian doesn’t deliver a finishing blow. Instead, he waits, eyes intent.

“Too slow,” he critiques gently. “Again.”

We reset. He lunges, I parry. This time, I manage to deflect in time, though the force of his attack jars my arms. My stance wavers, and he steps forward, forcing me to retreat. My feet shuffle, the courtyard spinning around us.

“Good,” he says. “Keep your elbow in.”

I obey, adjusting. We trade slow blows, each carefully calculated. Despite the methodical pace, the practice brims with tension—both from the combat dynamic and the heightened awareness thrumming between us.

Half an hour passes in a blur of parries, thrusts, corrections. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my arms tremble from exertion. Vaelorian eventually halts, lowering his sword.

“Enough,” he says. “You’re done for today.”

I exhale, shoulders sagging. “Right. Yes.”

We stand there, breathing hard. The sun has dipped beyond the fortress walls, painting the sky in orange and pink. My pulsethrums, and I realize with startling clarity that I’m not just exhausted—I’m on edge with a different kind of energy.

Vaelorian’s gaze sweeps over me. He opens his mouth, closes it, as though reconsidering whatever he was about to say. The moment feels charged, the hush broken only by distant clamor from the fortress.

I break eye contact first, turning to place the wooden sword on a nearby bench. My heart pounds at my throat. Then, without warning, the tip of Vaelorian’s practice blade glances across my shoulder, so light it’s barely a touch.

I spin, confusion flaring. “What?—?”

He steps closer, eyes dark. “A final test. If an enemy circles behind you, can you respond?”

My instincts, sharpened by weeks of training, override my exhaustion. I lunge, intending to disarm him. But he reads me easily, deflecting. The movement throws me off-balance, and I stumble forward—straight into his chest.

He drops his sword, gripping my arms to steady me. Heat flares between us. I catch the faint scent of leather and something uniquely his—an undertone of crisp night air, if night had a scent.

My heart gallops. I look up, meeting those obsidian eyes that glimmer with some unspoken conflict. We stand pressed together, breathing hard in the dimming light. The impulse to pull away wars with the sudden, desperate urge to close the last fraction of space between us.

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