Page 40 of Beast of Blood and Ash
OMVAR
My mate was madeof a fire few could see.
Her newfound strength was a dangerous, beautiful thing. To cage her now would be to smother that flame, and I would rather be burned alive. I would gladly spend days with her in our rooms, making love until we remembered nothing else. But two days of mating frenzy was already more than we deserved with the threat of Ignarath still hanging heavy over us.
She needed a weapon.
Not just a wooden stick for drills, not the bundle of brittle human courage Scalvaris called training. I watched her cross the cavern’s dust with a look on her face that was almost calm.
Only almost. She hid the exhaustion that painted bruises under her eyes, burying it behind that stubborn set of her jaw. A survivor, yes. It was written in her knuckles and the way she never quite unclenched her fists.
But surviving wasn’t enough. Not now. Not with Skorai’s killers tasting the city air, hunting at the edges of Scalvaris territory. And the city could not protect her, not forever. I was done caging her. She needed a blade built into her bones. My lessons, not theirs.
I pulled in a slow breath. Scorched iron, old sweat, and sulfur pressed tight in the heavy stone air. “Take your position.”
She flinched before she got control. The practice staff twitched in her hands—small, battered, the wood bearing a smear of her dried blood at one end. She gripped it like a lifeline, not a weapon. I saw it in her eyes, the old panic fighting to the surface, spine ramrod straight. Her mouth thinned in distrust.
“We don’t have to do this,” she said, her voice so tight it might snap. She met my gaze, chin stubborn, feet planted as if rooting herself in the sand to hold out forever.
I kept my bearing neutral, not yielding an inch of the space. My shadow, immense and molten with heat, fell over the lines she drew in her mind.
“What you know is not enough,” I said. My voice came out a low rumble, the kind used to command soldiers in Ignarath pits. “Not against Ignarath. Not against what’s coming. This is not a duel. You will forget your pride, or you’ll die.”
A flicker of something shone through, not quite anger, not quite fear. She squared her shoulders. “You saying you won’t give me a choice?”
“They won’t," I said.
She looked away, the silence thickening between us. Grit scraped the soles of her boots. I waited for her to run. Instead, she squared her shoulders, raised the staff until her pale knuckles stood out stark against the wood. “Fine.”
Pride. Anger. Fear. All of it fuel.
I felt it coil in my chest like a living thing.
Now I meant to forge her into something that could not break. Even if it meant shattering the last clean pieces she had left.
I took a staff longer than hers, heavier, scuffed from decades of use by Drakarn muscle. My claws creaked along its length.
“Attack me. As you would anyone who means to kill you. Hold nothing back.”
She charged without a second’s hesitation, a flicker of desperate speed that would have tricked a fool. Not me. I let her come, didn’t even move to block the first wild swing. The staff clipped my hip with a hollow slap that barely stung. Her breath was ragged, rhythm breaking already.
“Again,” I barked.
She circled, staff held up, sweat darkening her brow. I saw her scan for an opening that a smaller opponent could exploit. She jabbed at my thigh, then my ribs. Fast, faster than I expected from someone who shook every morning, who woke with her mouth choked full of screams. Anger powered her, and the staff moved like an extension of her own need.
But not enough. She still held back.
“No,” I snapped, catching her staff and wrenching it aside. Too gentle. “You’re trying to win a sparring match. You should be trying to end a life. Stop thinking.” I jerked her weapon further, spinning her off balance. She stumbled, heels scraping in the sand, and righted herself with pure, ugly determination.
Her jaw was tight. “I thought you were supposed to be teaching me.”
“I am,” I said. “Lesson one: there’s no honor on the dirt of Ignarath. If your enemy stumbles, you end them. You don’t let them stand.”
I didn’t let her catch her breath. I lashed out, a controlled blow with the butt of my staff that she blocked, barely, the shock traveling up her arms.
“Don’t stand tall. Your center of gravity is too high. Bend your knees!” I struck again, this one feinted at her shoulder, then slipping low for her thigh. She blocked, but the staff slid in her sweaty grip, and she barely kept it from dropping.
The air in the cavern thickened, echoing with the steady clack of wood and the grunt of effort. Heat crystals flickered above, throwing monstrous shadows against the black volcanic walls. Every misstep bounced around us, louder than a battle cry.
