The sun was too damn high for comfort.

Heat slicked down Ridoc’s back, soaking through his shirt until it clung like a second, unwelcome skin. The training mat steamed beneath his boots, shimmering with heat waves that blurred the edges of the arena. His knuckles ached from gripping his practice sword too tight for too long, and his stomach reminded him—again—that he’d skipped breakfast for this lovely session of sweat-until-your-soul-leaves-your-body.

“Training builds character,” they said.

He had enough character, thanks.

Ridoc twisted his neck until it popped, then let his blade rest against his shoulder as he turned toward the edge of the field. Another round of pairs was being called. He prayed for a break, a cold drink, maybe a kiss on the cheek from a healer. Or a volunteer. He wasn’t picky.

“Gamlyn,” the instructor barked, voice rough with boredom. “You’re up. West ring.”

He groaned. Loudly.

“Who’s my lucky partner?” he called, dragging his feet toward the designated circle.

No answer. Just a nod toward the far edge, where a rider stepped into view—lean, steady, gaze sharp like a knife balanced on its edge. Not from his squad. Not from Xaden’s little rebellion either.

Just another rider. Or so he thought.

And then she grabbed the hem of her shirt and peeled it off.

Just like that.

No hesitation, no theatrics—just a flash of bare skin and toned muscle before she tossed the sweat-damp fabric to the side. Her leathers clung like sin, the tight black bra hugging her ribs and chest like it had been poured on. She rolled her shoulders once, calm as a predator who knew exactly what kind of chaos she could cause.

Ridoc blinked.

Then blinked again.

Where in the actual hells had she come from? And how had he never seen her before?

His mouth went dry. His thoughts promptly forgot how to think.

Well. Two could play that game.

He ripped his own shirt off and flung it onto the ground. Let the sun catch the sweat beading on his tan skin. Let her see exactly what she was up against. He stepped into the ring with a smirk, already losing half the battle to how incredibly interested he was.

“Hi there,” he said, voice sliding into that half-cocked grin he’d mastered over years of charming people out of their own good sense. “You new to the joy of kicking my ass, or is this just your lucky day?”

She didn’t even blink. Just looked him up and down—slowly—and raised one unimpressed brow. “You always this loud, or are you compensating for something?”

He let out a bark of laughter, heart thumping once, hard. “Gods, I hope it’s not that obvious.”

She stepped onto the mat like she owned it. Like he was just background noise. He should’ve been offended.

He was intrigued instead.

“Let’s make a deal,” he offered, circling her, blade tapping against his shoulder. “If I win, you buy me a drink. If you win... well, I’ll still let you buy me a drink, but I’ll be nicer about it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Shirtless and shameless. Classic.”

Then she struck.

Fast. Fluid. Brutal.

And he barely managed to block.

They danced, swords ringing, steps quick and calculated. She moved like lightning wrapped in silk—controlled, efficient, beautiful. And she wasn’t smiling, not even a little. But her eyes stayed on him, steady, assessing. Every feint of hers tested his edge. Every parry he made earned him another piece of her attention.

Then—bam.

A strike across his ribs with the flat of her blade.

He grunted and stumbled, and she stepped back, finally—finally—smirking.

A small thing. Barely there. But it hit like a punch to the gut.

Ridoc panted, laughing despite himself, sweat dripping down his spine. “You fight dirty,” he said, voice all gravel and heat. “Brutal. Charming. And definitely trying to kill me.”

He took a slow step closer, letting his gaze drop to the curve of her smirk.

“Fuck—just my type.”