Let’s talk about the training.
There were two parts:
Combat.
“Not killing your sparring partner when annoyed.”
(Which, I’ll be honest, was going to be hard. Because he was the sparring partner.)
He handed me a sword.
I handed it right back.
“No thanks. I don’t do peasant cosplay.”
He raised a brow. “It’s for your reflexes.”
“My reflex is lightning.”
He tossed a blade into the air and caught it behind his back. “Then control the storm. Or it’ll control you.”
…
Damn it. He was hot and wise.
We trained for hours.
Well—he trained. I suffered.
I tripped over my own cloak at least twice, burned a training post, and nearly exploded when he said my stance looked like I was “trying to flirt with the wind.”
He moved like a nightmare with rhythm. Sharp. Silent. Controlled.
And me?
I
