Wren
The Nightbane training yard at dawn was a kind of violent church.
I hadn't meant to become a regular in the gallery above it. It started as a place to drink my tea, a stone walkway with a view of the mountains, and if the view happened to include forty warriors drilling in the cold morning light, that was geography, not intention. But I kept coming back, and I had stopped pretending it was for the mountains.
Because Zephyr trained with them. Not over them, with them, first into the yard and last out, and watching him fight was like watching weather given a body. Bigger men swung at him and hit the place he had already left. He moved through three opponents the way a storm moves through wheat, unhurried, absolute, and then he would stop, stand the beaten man back up, and rebuild him
