The sun had barely crested the mountains when you stepped onto the sparring ring, the morning wind tugging at your braid, carrying the crisp bite of mist and steel. Your muscles ached pleasantly—though not from training. You stretched your arms overhead, biting back a smirk as the memory of Nyx’s hands on your hips last night danced through your mind.

“Morning,” Emerie called, nodding to you as she tightened the straps on her leathers.

“Morning,” you replied, keeping your tone light.

Nesta and Gwyn were already circling each other in a warm-up match, wooden swords clacking in rhythmic bursts. Cassian stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, barking out the occasional correction.

You tried not to fidget under his gaze.

Then he appeared.

Nyx strolled onto the ring like he belonged in the skies above it—shirtless, wings half-spread, tattoos on full display.

“Look who decided to join us early,” the General muttered. “Must be motivated this morning.”

Nyx only smirked. “Thought I’d sharpen my edge.”

Cassian paired everyone off, and, to your utter non-surprise, you were matched with Nyx.

You stood across from him, blades drawn, his violet eyes locked onto you with a gleam that promised trouble.

“You good?” he asked softly, only for your ears.

“Fine,” you lied. “Perfectly sore—ready.”

His lips twitched. “Good. You’ll need that fire.”

The first clash of blades was electric.

He didn’t go easy on you—not in front of everyone—but each move was laced with something just beneath the surface. His hand lingered too long on your waist when he corrected your stance. His eyes drifted to your mouth between blows. Every time you pivoted, every strike that brought your bodies close, it was like your bond thrummed with the echo of last night’s heat.

“Focus,” he murmured after disarming you and pinning you with his blade at your throat.