Page 23 of Moonlit Desires

To demonstrate, he assumes a stance that reminds Lyra of a wolf poised to leap. His feet plant themselves precisely, shoulders aligned above hips, everything in perfect balance. When he moves, it's with fluid certainty – each step, each turn of his wrist, each shift of weight calculated yet seemingly effortless. The practice sword cuts geometric patterns through the air, his muscular frame controlled by centuries of discipline.

"The forms are ancient," he explains, executing a series of movements that look more like dance than combat. "Each corresponds to a phase of the moon. This is Waxing Crescent – defensive, conservative, gathering strength." His body coils, sword raised in guard position. "And this is Full Moon – aggressive, expansive, overwhelming." He lunges forward, blade describing a perfect arc that ends with startling suddenness.

Lyra attempts to copy him, but her limbs refuse to cooperate. What looks like water in his hands becomes stone in hers, each movement stilted and self-conscious. After three failed attempts at the simplest form, she lets her sword arm drop in frustration.

"I can't do this," she mutters. "My body doesn't move that way."

Kael pauses, studying her with those impossible blue eyes. "Your mind resists what your blood remembers." He approaches, circling behind her. "You're fighting yourself more than you're fighting me."

His proximity sends an unexpected shiver across her skin. Before she can respond, his hands are on her shoulders, adjusting their angle with firm pressure. The touch is clinical, instructive, yet Lyra feels her breath catch in her throat.

"Wider stance," he says, voice closer to her ear than necessary. His boot nudges her feet apart, creating a more stable base. "Lower your center." One hand slides to her hip, pressingdownward, the heat of his palm burning through the thin fabric of her shift.

Lyra swallows, suddenly acutely aware of how the early light silhouettes her body beneath the simple garment. Kael's fingers linger at her waist, his other hand guiding her sword arm into proper position. He is a wall of heat at her back, solid and unyielding.

"Now," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair at her nape, "feel the form rather than thinking it. Let your body remember."

He guides her through the movement, his larger frame enveloping hers, controlling her motion with subtle pressure. For a moment, Lyra surrenders to the direction, letting her body follow his lead. The sword sweeps through the air with unexpected grace, and something clicks – a fragment of muscle memory she didn't know she possessed.

"Yes," Kael says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "That's it. Again, but alone this time."

He steps away, the sudden absence of his heat leaving Lyra oddly bereft. She repeats the form, finding it flows more naturally now, as if her limbs have recalled something her mind never knew.

As the sun climbs higher, their training intensifies. Sweat dampens Kael's temples, dark patches spreading across his shirt where it clings to the contours of his chest. Lyra feels her own shift growing heavy, plastered against her back where the crescent mark pulses with increasing warmth. Each time she executes a form correctly, the sigil throbs, as if approving her progress.

"Better," Kael acknowledges after she successfully blocks three consecutive strikes. "Now attack me."

Lyra hesitates only a moment before lunging forward, sword aimed at his midsection. He parries effortlessly, but she presses on, finding an unexpected rhythm in the exchange. Her feetmove without conscious direction, carrying her into the next strike, then the next. The wooden blades crack together, punctuating their accelerating dance across the courtyard.

"Good," Kael says, though his voice has roughened. "Your blood is waking."

The praise emboldens her. Lyra feints left, then strikes from the right, a move she hasn't been taught but somehow knows. Kael's eyes widen fractionally before he counters, his response more forceful than before. They circle each other, the space between them charged with something beyond combat focus.

Lyra attacks again, putting her full weight behind the blow. Kael deflects it, but the force pushes him back a step – the first ground she's gained all morning. Something flashes in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or approval – before his expression hardens into determination.

His counterattack comes with unexpected intensity, driving her backward across the flagstones. Each strike vibrates up her arms, jarring her teeth, yet she meets them all. Her sigil burns hotter, pulsing in time with her racing heart, sending silver warmth through her veins. The sensation is both foreign and familiar, like remembering a dream she never actually had.

She's so focused on his blade that she fails to notice his strategy until it's too late. Kael has maneuvered her toward the courtyard's edge, where ancient stone columns rise like sentinels. Her back meets cold stone, halting her retreat. In the same moment, Kael's practice sword slips past her guard, coming to rest against the hollow of her throat.

"Dead," he says again, but there's no flatness in his tone now. His voice has dropped to a register that makes her skin prickle, deep and rough-edged.

Lyra freezes, acutely aware of their position. Kael's body blocks any escape, one hand braced against the column beside her head, the other holding the wooden blade to her throat. Hisbreathing comes in controlled but audible bursts, chest rising and falling mere inches from hers. This close, she can see the faint silver scars that map his forearms, the slight tremble in the hand that holds the sword, the darkening of his eyes as they lock with hers.

"You fight better when you don't think," he says, his words barely above a whisper. The practice sword doesn't waver, but his gaze drops briefly to her lips, then returns to her eyes with renewed intensity.

Lyra swallows, feeling the wooden edge press against her skin with the movement. The mark on her back throbs insistently, sending waves of heat through her body that have nothing to do with exertion. Neither of them moves, suspended in a moment that stretches like heated glass, fragile and dangerous.

"Is that why you don't think around me?" she asks, surprising herself with her boldness.

Kael's expression fractures, control giving way to something raw and hungry before he masters himself again. The practice sword doesn't move from her throat, but his body shifts imperceptibly closer, heat radiating between them like a physical force.

"Again," he says, his voice a rasp of gravel. But this time, it doesn't sound like a command to resume training.

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The wooden blade at Lyra's throat trembles almost imperceptibly, betraying the war raging behind Kael's disciplined exterior. His eyes darken to the blue of a midnight sea, pupils expanding until only a thin ring of color remains. The air between them grows thick, charged with possibility, and Lyra finds herself unable to look away from the hunger etched into the severe lines of his face.

The practice sword clatters to the flagstones, discarded and forgotten. In the same heartbeat, Kael's hands find her wrists,pinning them against the cold stone column with unexpected force. His grip is iron and heat, thumbs pressing against her pulse points as if measuring the rapid flutter of her heart.

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