The Primordial Flame

Electric training.

The cabin is small, rustic, and instantly warm. A stacked stone fireplace dominates one wall, filled with dry logs ready to be lit, while a soft wool blanket drapes over a sturdy wooden chair by the hearth. The simple, quiet peace of the space feels a world away from the suffocating tension back at Arden's cottage.

"Sit by the hearth," Bram instructs softly, pulling out a flint and striker to k****e the fire. "I'll get a fire roaring and put some water on for tea. You look like you're frozen to the bone."

I walk over to the hearth, rubbing my arms to chase away the chill, and sink into the sturdy wooden chair by the fire. I watch Bram's large, calloused hands skillfully strike the flint, sparks flying until a warm flame catches on the dry kindling.

The quiet, steady way he moves, and the immediate respect the other men show him without him ever having to raise his voice, makes a lingering thought snap into place.

"They listen to you," I say softly, leaning forward slightly as the golden firelight reflects in my eyes. "Are you in charge of the Guild, Bram?"

Bram pauses, holding the iron poker in the flames for a beat before letting out a quiet, rumbled sigh. He sets the tool down and sits back on a low wooden bench across from me, resting his forearms on his knees.

"Not officially, no," Bram says, his dark eyes meeting mine with quiet honesty. "The Blackhands don't really have a 'king' or a lord, Ame. We're a pack. But I'm the oldest left in our squad, and I've survived more contracts than most of 'em combined."

He tilts his head back toward the door, where Arden's cottage sits miles away.

"Den commands the field when steel starts swinging, he's fast, lethal, and men follow his lead in a fight," Bram explains softly. "But when it comes to keeping the squad together, keeping heads cool, and making sure we don't turn into butchering monsters for silver, yeah. They look to me. Even Arden, when he isn't letting his pride blind him."

He reaches over to take a heavy copper kettle, setting it over the grate to heat.

"Which is why," Bram adds, his tone dropping into a serious, protective thread, "I'm not going to let him or Colette destroy what's left of this home. You're safe here, Ame. As long as you're under my roof, nobody in the Guild, and no King touches a hair on your head."

"The oldest?" I ask, tilting my head with a faint, incredulous smile. "Bram, you don't look old."

Bram chuckles, a low, deep sound that warms the quiet cabin as he adjusts the copper kettle over the flames. "I'm thirty three, Ame. In our line of work, thirty three is ancient. Most men in the Guild don't see thirty with the life we lead."

I watch the firelight dance across his features, the weight of his words settling over me. I think back to Alaric’s guards in the market, the lingering fear that has shadowed my every step, and Arden's constant, suffocating need to shield me while not to give me the tools to protect myself.

"Would you train me?" I ask softly, leaning forward in my chair, my raspy voice filled with sudden, quiet resolve. "Arden was supposed to, but he's been too busy with contracts or brooding. I would like to learn how to fight."

Bram stops what he's doing, turning his dark eyes to me. He doesn't laugh, and he doesn't patronise me or tell me I'm too delicate, he simply searches my face, measuring the fierce fire in my spirit.

A slow, approving smirk touches his lips, and he gives a single, firm nod.

"I will," Bram says, his voice carrying absolute promise. "Arden tried to teach you like something fragile he was afraid to break. That's why he never got around to it. But tomorrow morning, we start. I won't teach you how to be a brute, Ame, I'll teach you how to use your speed, how to handle a blade, and how to make sure no man ever puts his hands on you again."

"Could we start now?" I tease, tilting my head with a playful smirk. "Or are you too tired, old man?"

Bram pauses, his jaw dropping in mock offence as his dark eyes light up with silent amusement.

"Old man, is it?" he rumbles, a dangerous, playful glint in his eye. "Right then. Little firebrand wants to learn? Let's see if you can keep up before the tea boils."

He steps toward the centre of the cabin, clearing away a small wooden stool with a casual sweep of his foot to make space on the smooth timber floorboards. He reaches into his belt, pulling out a pair of plain, dull wooden practice daggers he keeps for drills, throwing one gently through the air toward me.

I catch it awkwardly against my chest, my heart thumping with a sudden rush of nervous excitement.

"Rule number one, Ame," Bram says, sinking into a low, steady stance, holding his wooden blade loosely in his large grip.

"A sword is for show, but a dagger is for survival. Alaric grabbed your neck because he was close enough to touch you. When someone gets that close, you don't reach for a heavy sword, you slip a blade right under their ribs."

He gestures for me to step forward into the warm firelight. "First thing you learn isn't how to strike. It's footwork and how to keep your balance so no brute can throw you around. Show me your stance."

"My what?" I ask, staring at him in complete, genuine confusion, holding the dull wooden dagger awkwardly in my hands like a serving spoon.

"Oh dear," Bram chuckles softly under his breath, shaking his head with a gentle shake.

"Okay, let me show you."

He steps in very close, his towering frame completely enveloping my vision as he moves behind me. His large, warm hands gently take hold of my shoulders, turning them at a slight angle to make me a smaller target. He reaches down, his calloused fingers brushing against my hip and the back of my knee, nudging my feet further apart until my weight settles evenly against the timber floorboards.

His chest is resting mere inches from my back, the steady, heavy thud-thud-thud of his heart beating rapidly against his ribs at our close proximity.

My breath instantly gets stuck in my throat. The quiet crackle of the hearth fire seems to amplify, and the air between us suddenly feels thick, warm, and charged with something completely unexpected.

"Keep your knees slightly bent, like this," Bram murmurs right beside my ear, his deep voice dropping into a raspy, quiet rumble.

"Center of gravity low. If a man tries to push you now, you don't fall."

He gently presses a hand against my shoulder to test my balance, his thumb lingering just a second longer than necessary against the fabric of my dress before he steps back, clearing his throat quietly.

"Now," Bram says, his voice a fraction tighter than before as he holds up his own practice blade. "Try to hit my hand."

I swallow hard, forcing the sudden heat in my cheeks to fade as I focus on the smooth wood of the practice dagger in my palm. I take a deep, steadying breath, bending my knees just like he showed me, and lunge forward with a quick burst of speed, thrusting the dull blade straight toward his open palm.

Bram doesn't even move his feet. With a flick of his wrist, his wooden knife strikes mine with a sharp clack!, expertly knocking my hand aside and sending a jarring vibration straight up my arm.

before I can recover my balance, his hand snaps forward, the flat of his dull blade tapping gently against the center of my chest, right over my heart.

"You're fast, Ame," Bram murmurs, his dark eyes locked on mine, illuminated by the dying embers of the hearth. "But you're lunging with your upper body. You gave away your line of attack before your feet even left the floor."

He resets his stance, lowering his blade, but he doesn't step back. The small space between us remains humming with that strange, unspoken gravity.

"Again," he says softly, a faint, encouraging smile touching his lips. "This time, don't look at my hand. Look at my chest. Drive from your back foot, and strike before I even see your shoulder shift."

I grip the wooden hilt tighter, feeling the fire burning in my veins, determined to land a strike.

I fix my eyes on his chest, sink lower into my stance, and explode forward.

Instead of lunging straight into his guard, I step sharply to the left, driving off my back foot just like he said. Bram’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, he didn't expect the pivot. He reacts in a split second, bringing his wooden dagger up to parry, but I slide my blade up along his, catching his hilt.

Our practice weapons lock tightly together at the guards, the friction holding them bound between us. The momentum sends me crashing straight into his chest, and Bram’s free hand instinctively catches me by the waist to keep us both from tumbling to the floorboards.

My front presses flush against his broad, solid frame. His leather coat smells of pine, cold steel, and woodsmoke.

We freeze.

Our wooden daggers remain locked between our chests, but neither of us moves to break the bind. My head tilts back to look up at him, my lips parted as my chest heaves against his, trying to catch my breath. Bram’s hand on my waist feels like a brand, his fingers pressing firm through the fabric of my dress.

His dark eyes drop to my lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to meet mine. The air in the cabin grows unbearably thick, the crackle of the hearth fire the only sound left in the world. His pulse thuds heavily against his throat, matching the frantic rhythm in my own chest.

"Better," Bram rasps, his deep voice dropping into an intimate, velvet murmur that vibrates right against my ribs. He doesn't let go of my waist. "Much better, Ame."

I catch the slight flicker in his gaze, the split second delay in his veteran instincts while his focus lingers on my face.

Now.

I twist my wrist hard to the outside, leveraging my wooden hilt against his thumb just like a lever. The sudden, practiced torque breaks his grip, and his practice dagger clatters loudly against the timber floorboards.

In the same fluid motion, I push off his chest and step back out of his reach, twirling my wooden blade between my fingers before coming to a rest in a perfect, low stance.

A triumphant, breathless smirk spreads across my lips as I look up at him.

"Rule number two," I say softly, mimicking his raspy, quiet tone, my eyes dancing with a sharp, victorious spark. "Never get distracted by the target."

Bram stands frozen for a beat, looking down at his empty, open palm, and then at the wooden dagger lying at his boots. A dark, rumbled laugh builds in his chest, breaking the heavy tension like a sudden breath of crisp mountain air.

"Well I'll be damned," Bram mutters, shaking his head with a wide, proud grin as he stoops down to retrieve his weapon. "Look at you. You really do learn fast, Ame."

He lifts the copper kettle off the hearth grate just as it begins to sizzle and whistle, pouring steaming water into two clay mugs filled with dried herbs. He turns back to me, offering one of the warm mugs with a look of genuine respect in his dark eyes.

"Drink your tea, champion," he murmurs warmly. "You earned it."