The afternoon sun beat down on the red-dust floor of the training ring, but you hardly felt the heat. Your focus was entirely on the weight of the blade in your hand. It felt heavy—clumsy—compared to the effortless grace you’d seen the Illyrians display.

"Your grip is too tight," a low, gravelly voice vibrated behind you.

Before you could turn, Azriel stepped into your space. He didn't stay at a distance. He moved until the heat radiating from his chest was a physical presence against your back. You caught the scent of him—chilled mist and cedarwood—and your breath hitched.

He didn't pull away. Instead, his scarred, calloused hands reached around you. One hand settled firmly on your forearm, while the other covered your hand on the hilt of the sword. The leather of his gloves was cool, but the strength beneath them was absolute.

"Relax your shoulder," he murmured.

He leaned in closer to adjust the angle of your arm, and you felt the ghost of his breath brush against the sensitive skin of your neck, just below your ear. A shiver that had nothing to do with exhaustion raced down your spine.

"If you fight the blade, it will fight you back," he whispered, his jaw so close to your temple that you could feel the movement of his words. "Let it be an extension of your arm. An extension of you."

For a heartbeat, he didn't move. He stayed there, cocooning you in his shadow and his heat, his heart beating a steady, heavy rhythm against your shoulder blades. In that moment, the spymaster wasn't looking at your form or your footing—he was looking at the way the sunlight turned your eyes into shattered ice, and he seemed to forget, just for a second, to let go.