Clipped

Chapter 32.

​The training ring was a sunken circle of sand and frost, walled in by the natural curve of the mountain’s ribs. Torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that stretched across the floor like reaching fingers.

​Rhiannon stood at the edge of the pit, her breath hitching in the frigid air. The static in her mind was a low hum tonight- not a scream, but a restless vibration that refused to let her settle into sleep again. Down in the center of the ring, Fenris was moving. He was a blur of controlled power, practicing a sequence of strikes against a heavy wooden post. The thud-crack of his fists against the timber echoed through the silent Hall, a steady, hypnotic pulse.

​He stopped the moment she stepped onto the sand. He didn't turn around, his chest heaving as he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of a scarred hand.

​"The moon isn't even halfway across the sky, Rhia," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble.

​"I couldn't sleep" Rhiannon said, stepping into the light of the nearest torch. She had traded her long skirts for a pair of Sora’s reinforced leather leggings and a simple linen tunic. "I want you to teach me, I want to know how to use the weight."

​Fenris turned then, his eyes tracking her attire, then her face. The silver scar she had closed on his chest only twenty-four hours ago stood out against his skin, a testament to the new rhythm between them. He didn't offer a platitude or tell her to go back to bed. He simply nodded and gestured for her to enter the center of the ring.

​"Self-defense isn't about being stronger than the man trying to hurt you," Fenris said, his voice shifting into the cadence of a teacher. "It is about understanding that he has a center of gravity, and if you can break it, his size becomes his enemy."

​He stopped just outside her space. "I need to touch you, Rhia. To show you the placement. Are you ready?"

​Rhiannon took a long, steadying breath. "Yes."

​Fenris stepped in. The heat radiating from him was a physical force. As he reached out, his large, calloused hands moved with deliberate slowness, giving her every second to retreat. When his bare fingers finally made contact with the exposed skin of her shoulders, the reaction was instantaneous.

​A wave of goosebumps erupted across Rhiannon’s arms, a physical shiver that had nothing to do with the cold. She gasped, her skin singing where he touched her. Fenris didn't flinch, though a familiar electric jolt snapped through his palms the moment they met her skin. He had felt that spark every time he’d touched her- at the brothel, in the Great Hall, on the balcony, and he had learned to weather it, though his pupils dilated until the blue in his eyes was nearly swallowed by gold.

​"If I grab you like this," he murmured, his thumbs pressing firmly against her collarbones to anchor her, "your instinct is to push back. Don't. If you push, I can brace."

​He shifted his grip, his hand sliding down to the bare skin of her waist to guide her stance. Another surge of electricity crackled between them, and Rhiannon felt her knees go weak for a fleeting second. The static flared- a memory of a dark room, of being pinned, but the sensation of Fenris's hands was different. They were heavy, yes, but they were steady. They were a lesson, not a shackle.

​Hold the rhythm, she told herself, focusing on the heat of his palms.

​"Step back with your lead foot," Fenris coached, his voice low and grounding. "Drop your weight. Become the stone, not the leaf."

​Rhiannon obeyed. She stepped back, sinking her center of gravity. As she did, she felt the shift. Fenris’s own momentum was suddenly left with nowhere to go.

​"Now turn," he urged, his breath warm against her temple.

​She pivoted, her hip catching his thigh. She used her hands to guide his shoulder downward. It was a fluid, sweeping motion. In one heartbeat, he was the mountain; in the next, he was falling.

​Fenris hit the sand with a heavy, muffled thud, Rhiannon following him down to ensure the throw was complete. She ended up straddling his chest, her knees pinning his biceps, her bare hands pressed firmly against the silver scar on his chest.

​The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by their synchronized, ragged breathing.

​Rhiannon’s blue hair fanned out around her face. Beneath her, Fenris lay perfectly still, the electric jolt of her touch now a constant, humming current through his entire frame. He looked up at her with pure, unadulterated pride.

​Then, her magic reacted to the intensity.

​A burst of neon-blue energy surged from her palms. It didn't burn, but a flash of frost raced outward from her touch, pinning Fenris to the sand. A thin, crystalline layer of ice formed over his shoulders and the floor of the ring, locking him down in a shimmering, frozen embrace.

​Rhiannon jumped back, her boots sliding on the ice. Her skin was still tingling from the contact, her heart hammering. "I-I didn't mean to-"

​Fenris stayed where he was for a moment, looking at the ice flowers blooming around his neck. He gave a low, rumbling laugh. With a surge of strength, he shattered the ice and stood up, brushing the frost from his skin.

​"Don't apologize," he said, his eyes glowing. "That was the most honest conversation we’ve had yet."

​He didn't close the gap again, but the air between them was charged, the goosebumps on her skin finally fading into a warm, lingering hum.

​"You aren't just surviving anymore, Rhia," Fenris said. "You’re learning how to own the space you stand in."

​Rhiannon looked at her hands, then at him. The shears in her head were silent. For the first time in ten years, she didn't feel like the victim. She felt like the one who was going to rewrite the ending.